Catching Fire
by Kelmin
Summary: Modern-day AU. Jim is a firefighter in Iowa; Bones is a paramedic, fleeing a disastrous breakup in Georgia. Follow the changes in their lives. Rated M for adult situations and scenes of trauma and peril. Appropriate warnings will be posted at the beginning of each chapter. Contains male/male relationship. HAD TO MOVE CH 8 and beyond to AO3 due to content. See note at end of ch. 7.
1. Fuel

****A/N: This story has a lot of realistic scenes of trauma and peril. I'll warn at the beginning of each chapter as appropriate. There's sex, and yes, it's slash, but it's not the focus of the story. But if that's not your cup of tea, don't read.

Also, I picked the title for this before I had ever heard of the Hunger Games trilogy. Also, there are apparently two characters with the same names as characters on Jersey Shore, which I've never seen. That's what I get for not keeping up with popular culture! But I'm attached, now, so they will remain as-is. Previously posted on LJ and AOOO under the pen-name kel_1970.

**Catching Fire  
**

**Chapter 1: Fuel**

"Stupid fuckin' idiot," Leonard McCoy muttered to himself, as he pulled into the small parking lot. "Goddamned moron."

He shut of the engine of his Chevy van and sat there behind the wheel for another thirty seconds. "This was the stupidest idea on the planet. _Iowa_, for fuck's sake. Stupid, dumb, idiotic—"

"Foolish, moronic, ridiculous, boneheaded, bird-brained … want me to go on, or not so much?"

Leonard scowled out his open window at the ridiculously cheerful face that had popped up right outside the window of his van.

"Who asked you?"

"Just helping out, pal. So, you must be our new paramedic."

"'Fraid so," Leonard said. He opened his door and hopped out.

"Who are you afraid for? Yourself, or the rest of us?"

"Take your pick."

"I'll go for … yourself. Georgia plates, cussin' yourself out in the parking lot; sounds like there's maybe a sad story there. But I'll let you tell me all about it later. I'm Jim Kirk, firefighter and rescue man extraordinaire on the ladder truck."

Kirk stuck his hand out, and he and McCoy shook.

"Leonard McCoy, and yes, I'm your new 'medic. Out of Savannah, Georgia. And yeah, there's a story, and no, you ain't gonna hear it."

"Now there's a challenge if I ever heard one."

"Lemme guess: you enjoy a challenge."

"Now, after all that calling yourself stupid, you're shaping up to be a fairly observant fellow, even for a sawbones! Come on in; I'll show you around."

McCoy allowed himself to be led in the back door of the fire station.

It was nothing like where he'd come from in Savannah. There, he'd run with a privately-owned ambulance company, which was entirely separate from the fire department. Here in Cedar Rapids, the fire department had its own ambulances, staffed by non-firefighter paramedics. He'd been looking for something different, to wash the taste of the last few months in Savannah out of his mouth, and different is what he got, when he was offered the job after a phone interview with the county's EMS director.

McCoy stopped at the door of the apparatus bay, and stood and looked at the trucks. There were two of them: a regular-looking fire engine, and one of those jobs with the big ladder on the top. Looked scary as hell. And nothing, but _nothing_, he thought, looks sexy painted the color of a tennis ball. Especially when it's the size of a tractor-trailer.

"Yo! Dudes! Look what I found!"

It looked to McCoy like there were about twice as many people in the bay as he'd expect there to be on one shift for two apparatus, but what did he know? They moved around a lot, making it hard to count them.

Fourteen or so men—no, make that twelve men and two women—looked over at Kirk. A few were in civvies, the rest in uniform.

One man—the one in the white shirt—walked over.

"You must be Leonard McCoy. I'm Chris Pike, Captain of the B-shift. Welcome aboard."

They shook hands. "Thank you, Captain. Or, uh, am I supposed to salute? I don't rightly know, coming from an ambulance company."

"Aw, now, Sawbones, don't start putting ideas in his head!" complained Kirk.

"Can it, Jim," Pike said. "Go get in uniform, and then, I don't know, pick your nose until roll call."

"Aye aye, Captain!" Kirk said, snapping Pike a smart salute.

"Infant," Pike muttered, as Kirk trotted off to the door that McCoy assumed led to the men's locker room.

"Sorry you got such a poor first impression of our shift," Pike said. "Not even our probie, who just turned eighteen, is as juvenile as Jim Kirk."

"This seems like … a lot of people," McCoy said.

"Oh, that's only because it's shift-change. Half the guys in the bay are A-shift. I'll introduce you to the B-shift at roll call. Until then, how about if we step into my office for a few minutes? I'll be sure to leave you plenty of time to get changed. Oh, and your uniforms are in your locker, which has your name on it already."

"Thanks, uh … okay, what do I call you?"

"You're in the fire department, and I'm your commanding officer, so technically it's 'Captain Pike.'"

"Uh, yessir, Captain Pike." McCoy mentally kicked himself for not knowing this, as he followed Pike into the tiny office.

"But unofficially, the medics are always a little sideways in the chain of command, since you take some of your orders from medical control. Plus, you're closer to my age than anyone else here, and have … how many years experience?"

"Twelve."

"Right. Your predecessor and I had a deal: in my office, or off shift, I'm Chris. In front of the guys, I should probably be 'Cap,' which is what all the others—well, everyone except Spock, that is—call me. Have a seat."

McCoy sat in the chair across from the desk. "Who is this Spock fellow, and what does he call you?"

Pike chuckled. "'This Spock fellow,' and don't let him hear you saying that, by the way, is Lieutenant Spock, who's the officer for the ladder company. He insists on 'proper address,' so I'm always 'Captain Pike.' Gets to be a bit of a mouthful, if you ask me. But what do you go by?"

"Len, usually. Though I'm already a little afraid about what that Kirk kid is gonna come up with."

"You should be," Pike said. "Wait till you hear the nickname he saddled his partner with. But don't worry—he's really a nice guy. Bat-shit crazy—which you kind of have to be, if you're a rescue man—but friendly."

"You know, 'friendly' can also be scary. Like dog, for instance. People who have big dogs always say, 'Oh, don't worry, he's very friendly,' and that's my sign to back away slowly, because there's nothing worse than a friendly dog when you're not a dog person," McCoy said.

Pike laughed out loud. "Oh, great. Now I have this image of Jim Kirk as a Yellow Lab, tongue lolling out of his mouth, wagging his tail wildly and humping people's legs."

"But a dog, you could keep on a leash."

Pike grinned at McCoy, and leaned back in his chair. "Len, welcome to Station 7. Glad to have you here."

McCoy smiled back, ever so slightly. "Thanks. I'm just hoping this isn't all a terrible mistake. I don't know anything about fire departments. Some of the medics down in Savannah volunteered at their local fire departments. Especially the trauma junkies—they're kind of the type for that. Uh, no offense," McCoy said quickly, realizing he'd already put his foot in his mouth.

"None taken. This job does take a certain … type. But go on."

"Me, I'm more of a medical man myself. Don't get me wrong, I handle trauma patients just fine. I just don't find them as fascinating as the medical patients. Plus, I'm afraid of heights—deathly afraid—so you'd never catch me up a ladder. So, what do I do? Run away from home and join the fire department, naturally. Terrific idea, huh?"

"Don't worry, you won't be going up any ladders. Some departments, their paramedics are also rescue men, which personally I think narrows the field way too much. It was a fine idea back in the early days of EMS, but these days, there's so much demand for EMTs of any level that we'd never have enough of them if they all had to qualify as firefighters, too. Take your new partner, Chris Chapel, for instance. Firefighting simply wouldn't be an option there."

"Why, what's his deal?"

"_Her_ deal."

"Ah. Right. I guess there aren't many female firefighters. Probably not a lot of women are strong enough, right?"

"Well, that's true. Some are, though. But firefighting still isn't a very female-friendly field, despite the fact that it's the 21st century. But we do have one. Gaila Morescu. She's a black belt in something or other, and strong as a whip. And her husband—yes, husband; make a note of that, because if you make any suggestion to her that since she's a woman in the fire service she must be a lesbian, she'll kick your ass from here to tomorrow, by the way—is self employed, so he watches the kids. Yes, kids."

"Okay—mental notes made. Anything else I should know before I jump into the fray?"

"Well, Christine will fill you in on the way your rig is organized, and all that paramedic stuff. She's an EMT-Basic, by the way—that's how we operate. One Basic and one Paramedic on each shift. If the call turns out to be Basic Life Support, she's with the patient in the rig, and you drive. If Advanced Life Support is needed, vice versa. You decide how it'll be played, of course. And whoever has the patient gets the pleasure of the paperwork. Which is all paperless, by the way."

"Yeah, I heard that in my phone interview. That's a relief; my handwriting is beyond awful."

Pike laughed again. "Any thoughts of medical school?"

"Yes. It's not happening right now, though."

Pike waited for more, and realized he wasn't going to get any, so he moved on, leaving yet another question mark about his new paramedic hanging in the air.

"We'll all try to fill you in, during down time, about the organization of this station. But the main thing is, there's the engine, and there's the ladder. Four guys on each, and everyone's got their special jobs. The engine company puts out the fire, and the ladder company does the stuff that makes putting the fire out easier. Or, if there are people trapped, gets them the hell out, ASAP."

"Ah. That would be done by the rescue men, am I right?"

"You got it. Jim Kirk, and his partner Cup—uh, Carl Jablonski. And Lieutenant Spock is the officer for the ladder company, and Scotty is his apparatus operator."

"And you said there's a _teenager_ working with us?"

"Oh, yes indeedy. Paul Chekov. He's our probie—probationary firefighter, that is, fresh out of the academy. He's a good kid. Too eager for his own good, but Gaila will shape him up in no time. Probably too smart for his own good too. Oh, and Hikaru Sulu is the apparatus operator for the engine. I think that's everyone." Pike's eyes darted over to the clock on the wall. "I better let you get changed. Roll call is in the bay at 0730. I'll let you put faces to all those names then. I'll assign daily chores then, but you're off the hook until you're satisfied you're up to speed on the rig and the local customs."

"I was at the hospital for a couple hours yesterday," McCoy said. "I'm all set on their expectations. Met a couple of the ER docs and nurses, too."

"Good. Well, go find your locker—it's probably in the middle row. Sorry about that."

McCoy shrugged. "I'm not picky."

"I hope that goes for food, too, because the cuisine around here is shit."

"Terrific." McCoy stood up. "See you at roll call. Thanks for the introductions."

Pike nodded.

McCoy walked back through the apparatus bay, where the diesel engine of the ladder truck was thrumming away. He trotted through quickly, not wanting to breathe the exhaust, but noticed that a big yellow tube was attached the—well, he supposed he'd still call it a tailpipe, even though it was midway down the apparatus—carrying the exhaust up and presumably out of the station.

"Okay, so maybe they don't actually _enjoy_ inhaling toxic fumes," McCoy said to himself. He found his locker, and changed into his uniform, wondering, for the hundredth time that week, what the hell he'd done.

**TBC**


	2. Oxygen

****WARNING for scenes of minor trauma to a child.

**Chapter 2: Oxygen **

Leonard found his locker easily, and got into uniform. It looked and felt all wrong—the shirt was the wrong color, the pants were stiff, and the insignia and patches were not what he was used to. It fit perfectly, though, and despite 'feeling wrong,' was quite comfortable. The rest—well, he'd get used to it. Or he wouldn't. One or the other, he thought. But being here was a done deal, so he might as well get used to it.

Irritated with himself for wasting his time thinking about such things, McCoy slammed his locker shut. He was keenly aware that he was the only one in the locker room, which meant that everyone else was already lined up in the bay, probably waiting for him.

He strode up to the end of the line, and noted that the woman next to him had an EMT-B patch on her shoulder. His new partner, then.

"All right, people," Pike said, clapping his hands. "0730. Listen up. First order of business: welcome to our new paramedic, Leonard McCoy. McCoy comes to us with twelve years' experience, most recently at an ambulance company in Georgia. Take a moment to introduce yourselves during the day. Chris, you'll go over the rig with him this morning; you'll start taking calls at 0930. So, McCoy, welcome. It's a pleasure having you on board."

McCoy nodded. "Thank you, Captain." As soon as he closed his mouth, he realized he was supposed to have said 'It's a pleasure to be here.' But he didn't know, yet, whether or not it was, so he waited out the short silence that Pike left him, trying not to squirm visibly.

Pike continued, mercifully, after just a few seconds. "Okay: engine company, A-shift has nothing to pass along to you, and ladder company, ditto. Assignments on the apparatus for today's shift are as per usual. Chores: Gaila, you're in charge of the apparatus bay; Spock, you've got lunch, God help us all." Everyone groaned, making McCoy wonder why, until Pike continued. "The Beano will be on the table, as usual, and hopefully we won't be near any live fire today. Kirk, Jablonski; you're on KP. Scotty, Sulu—weekly apparatus maintenance is assigned to our shift this week, so you're on that. Probie, bathrooms. Chapel and McCoy, you're relieved of chores this shift for orientation. And I'm on mounds of paperwork, lest you think I'm getting away with something here. Dismissed."

The line broke up, and McCoy turned to his new partner. "Leonard McCoy," he said, holding his hand out.

The tall blonde woman to his left took his hand and shook with a strong grip.

"Christine Chapel. Call me Chris. Nice to meet you. Georgia, huh? So what brings you to Iowa?"

"Well, it's not Georgia, first of all."

"Hmm. It's certainly not. But twelve years of experience—wow, you probably could've gone anywhere."

"But here I am," McCoy said. "In Iowa."

Chapel waited for more, but didn't get it. "So, what do you think so far?" she asked.

"So far, I think there's a lot of corn. And that everyone talks funny."

Chapel laughed. "Fair enough. I've lived here all my life, and I think there's a lot of corn, too. Come on, let me show you the rig."

Chris pulled open the rear doors of the ambulance, and started showing Leonard the layout of the compartments. Things were organized in the same categories, of course, but just kept in different locations. He'd get used to it. She showed him through the supply closet, and went over their restocking procedures. In the two hours they spent going over things, the engine and ladder were called out once for an alarm activation, and the engine once on its own for a minor motor vehicle accident where there were no injuries or entrapment, but where some gasoline needed to be dealt with.

"Y'all have quite a bit fancier equipment here in corn-land than I'm used to," Leonard said, after they'd been through the entire rig. "Battery-powered hydraulic stretchers, top-of-the-line defibrillator/monitor, et cetera, et cetera."

"Well, I don't know why that'd be," Chris said.

A head popped into the back of the rig.

"Hey, Sawbones. Hey, Steeple. Don't know why what would be?" Kirk asked.

"Don't you have something to _do_?" Chris asked.

"Nope—KP doesn't start in earnest until Spock messes up the kitchen with whatever vegan wonder he's inflicting on us today. So here I am, at loose ends, coming to bother anyone who looks busy. So, what is it that you don't know why it would be that way?"

"Just that the equipment here is way better than what I'm accustomed to," McCoy said, wondering if it was wise to encourage Kirk.

"Oh—that. Two things. Number one? You came from the private sector, right? In a small city? Well, let me tell you, taxpayer dollars are _excellent_," Kirk said. "And number two, we got wiped out by flooding a few years ago, and FEMA dollars are excellent too."

"Oh," McCoy said. "That would explain it. Thanks for the insight."

"No problem, Sawbones."

Kirk leaned there in the doorway of the rig, as if he expected Leonard to say something else.

McCoy decided to oblige, partly in self defense. "It doesn't make sense, really," he said, "to use something for a nickname that's just as many syllables as my last name, and longer than what people usually call me. I mean, what's wrong with 'Len?'"

"I could make you a shorter nickname," Kirk said. "'Saw.' No—wait, that's a _horrible_ movie. And you don't strike me as the serial killer type. 'Bones' it is, then. Oh—and by the way, I'm showing you around town after Pike springs us tonight. District familiarization, you know? No arguing, because I _know_ you don't have plans. See ya, Bones." And with that, Kirk was gone again, just as quickly as he'd appeared.

McCoy shook his head quickly, like a dog shaking water off its ears. "Jesus. And I came to Iowa to—" He stopped short, realizing he was about to say something he hadn't meant to say.

Chapel desperately hoped he'd continue. "To what?"

McCoy sighed he hadn't meant to say what he did, but there it was. "To be able to fucking breathe, is what. Pardon my French."

"Uh, I _do_ work at a fire station. But … what do you mean?"

"That kid—he seems to suck the oxygen right out of the air. No, that's not right—I guess that it's more like he uses twice as much as anyone else would. I don't mean to sound uncharitable, but … it's tiring just standing next to him." McCoy hoped Chapel wouldn't notice that he'd neatly sidestepped following up on his reasons for coming to Iowa.

Chapel laughed. "You should see him _work_. Now _that's_ tiring. But I can tell you one thing, nobody's better at what he does than he is. Nobody. There's nothing he won't try to get his save."

McCoy raised his eyebrows. "Seems like that could get you fired. Or dead. Or both."

"Posthumously fired? That would be a fire department first, I think. But if anyone could do it, it would be Jim."

"What could Jim do?"

Both Chapel's and McCoy's heads turned. Captain Pike was standing at the side door of the ambulance.

"Uh, get killed and fired at the same time," McCoy said.

Pike nodded. "Oh yes, trust me, he could. But: are you two ready to roll? It's almost 0930."

McCoy nodded. "I won't know where I'm going, at first, but if it's real life or death, I won't be driving anyhow. And if it's not? Hello, nice modern GPS. So yeah, we're good."

"Excellent. Make yourselves available, then. And come see the ready room—I don't know what you're used to in Georgia, but hopefully we won't disappoint."

"I doubt I could possibly be disappointed," McCoy said, as he climbed through into the cab and hit the status button on the mobile radio that automatically informed dispatch that they were available. "We had a TV and a DVD player in our bunk room, and whatever else people felt like bringing from home."

"Well, go be undisappointed, then," Chapel said. "You should meet some of the others, too. And you'll have to excuse me; my contact lenses are killing me. I better take them out before we get toned out."

McCoy pulled on the handle of the steel door that separated the apparatus bay from the rooms where the on-duty personnel spent their waking hours.

He wasn't disappointed.

There was a U-shaped arrangement of three dark fake-leather couches around a huge flat-screen TV, which was on but not blaring. There was a pair of desks, each with a computer sitting on it. In one corner, there was a small weight-lifting setup—nothing fancy, but just what you'd need to get the job done. The far end of the room was dominated by a large table with ten chairs around it, behind which was a wall with a stove, two ovens, a dishwasher, an industrial fridge and freezer, and enough counter space for two people to work.

"So, welcome to Station 7," a voice said from next to McCoy. "I'm Hikaru Sulu, and yes, my parents are Japanese, and yes, it's unusual to see Asians in the fire service in Iowa, or anywhere else for that matter, so there's those questions out of the way. Everyone calls me Sulu. What's your handle?"

"Just Len will do. Nice to meet you, Sulu. If I have my facts straight, you drive the engine? Sorry if I get things wrong; my last workplace was just ambulances."

Sulu smiled. "Well, that's part of what I do. I also operate the pump, to get water from the source and send it to the various hoses and whatnot we're using. And if there's no need for water, I'm a jack of all trades."

"And I'm completely aware I have no clue what any of those trades are," McCoy said sheepishly.

"You don't have to," Sulu said. "But any of us would be happy to fill you in any time. In fact, you'll be hard-pressed to stop some people."

McCoy listened to Sulu speak, and tried not to stare. Sulu's deep, melodic voice was such a mismatch with his physical appearance—short stature, compact but powerful-looking build—that it was fascinating to listen to and watch him talking.

"Come on, Len; there's a commercial on TV, so let me introduce you to the other two members of the engine company."

Len had already figured out, by process of elimination, which person in the room was Gaila. Even more than the fact that she was female, her fiery red hair made her stand out from the rest of the room's occupants.

"Gaila?" Sulu said.

"Yep—oh, hi," Gaila said, standing up from the couch. "Gaila Morescu."

"Leonard McCoy—I go by Len. I hope," McCoy said fervently.

Gaila chuckled. "Jim's found you already, I see. I would love to say he's harmless." She frowned, slightly. "Yeah, okay, I'll say it—he's harmless. Irritating as all hell, but harmless. Except maybe to himself."

"I've been getting that impression," McCoy replied. "Anyone else I need warning about?"

"Don't ever, repeat, _ever_, go drinking with Scotty," Gaila said, pointing across the room to a brown-haired man who was in fierce conversation with Jim Kirk. "And don't play chess with Spock. That's about all I can think of. We're all pretty much crazy, but like the book says, Mostly Harmless. Oh—and here's our Probie," Gaila continued, as what looked very much like a high-school freshman walked into the room.

"Probie!" she hollered, making McCoy wince.

"Ma'am?" the boy said.

"I swear, he's eighteen," Gaila said, as the kid walked over.

"I bet you have to say that a lot," McCoy said.

"Now that could be dirty, taken out of context," Gaila said. "I think I like you, Len. Anyhow: Len, Probie. Probie, Leonard McCoy."

"Do you have a name?" McCoy asked, shaking the boy's hand.

"Not around here—at least, not for another few months," the kid said.

"Well, your mama probably didn't name you 'Probie' when you were born," McCoy said. "I think Captain Pike said Paul-something-Russian."

"Yessir. Paul Chekov." The kid's eyes shifted back and forth.

Gaila laughed again. "He came from a private ambulance company, Probie. You see, Len, that's just what we do. Until he gets a black helmet, he's Probie. We've all been there. Nobody takes it personally."

"I don't," the kid said earnestly. "Honest. I've wanted to be a firefighter all my life, and I knew exactly what I was signing up for, and—"

Chekov's justifications were interrupted by the department tones dropping over the station's PA system.

"_Ladder 1, Ambulance 2, respond to 18 Field Lane for a report of an injured child in a treehouse. That's Ladder 1, Ambulance 2, to 18 Field Lane; injured child in treehouse. 0946._"

"Sounds like the old ball and chain got us a good one, Spock!" Kirk called, as the ladder crew started donning their gear.

"What did _that_ mean?" McCoy asked, as Chapel started up the ambulance. In place of her contact lenses, she now wore thick glasses.

"Spock's wife Nyota is a dispatcher for the county. And Kirk can't resist commentary. Ever."

"So I'm starting to see," McCoy said. "So, do we run with lights and sirens routinely when we're dispatched with a … a fire engine?" He was sure he had the terminology wrong, but he doubted Chapel would care.

"Yep. The rest of the time, we follow the dispatch codes, unless we decide to override for some reason and go hot."

Along the way, Chapel pointed out some key roads and intersections. In five minutes, they were at their destination, just ahead of the ladder.

McCoy gulped as he looked at the treehouse. It was a good twenty feet up the trunk of a tall, straight ash tree. There was a zip-line connecting the treehouse to a platform on a neighboring tree; the setup was certainly the pride of the neighborhood children. McCoy was suddenly glad there was nothing like this in his childhood neighborhood; it would've been hard to come up with good excuses to keep his feet firmly planted on the ground.

The ladder pulled up to the curb, and Spock stepped down to speak to the woman who'd called in the emergency. Fifteen seconds later, Kirk was on his way up the ladder on the side of the tree.

Spock's radio came to life.

"_Spock, the kid's got a broken arm, and may be concussed as well. I'll need the Stokes, rope bag, and whatever McCoy and Chapel need._"

"Copy. McCoy and Chapel will be coming up," Spock replied. He looked over at McCoy. "You may place your equipment near the base of the tree, and Jablonski and Sulu will send it up in the Stokes basket."

"Got it," McCoy said. He turned quickly, so Spock wouldn't see the look on his face.

_It figures,_ he thought. _It just fucking figures. It would have to be my first run, my _very_ first run, on my _very_ first shift. _He yanked open the compartment on the rig that held the splinting equipment. _It's like something out of a bad novel, or a bad TV show. And it _isn't_ what I signed on for. That's _not_ what __Cooper said in the interview._

"No," he muttered under his breath. "EMTs don't _do_ extrication work in our department. _That's_ what we have _firefighters_ for. Just fucking awesome."

He grabbed the bag of splinting equipment, and slammed the compartment closed. He whirled around and nearly ran right into Chapel, who was holding the bag of basic equipment and supplies they took in to all their calls.

"Uh, everything okay?"

"We'll see," McCoy snapped.

"Right …" Chapel said, putting the bag into the Stokes basket.

"Sorry," McCoy said. "Sorry."

"No problem. Let's get up there."

Chapel started up the ladder on the side of the tree. McCoy swallowed his gorge, and followed.

_Don't think about it, don't look down; think about the kid. The hurt kid. The kid you can hear whimpering up there._

He made it to the top of the ladder, but panicked when he realized he'd have to let go of the ladder briefly to climb through the hole in the floor of the treehouse.

"Gimme your hand," a voice said. "C'mon, let go with just one hand, and I'll help you through."

Okay. He'd believe that voice. But only because the kid was crying. He let go with his left hand, and a strong grip made him feel grounded once more. He took the last step up, sat down on the floor, and let himself freak out—on the inside—for just a second. He saw Kirk close a trap door over the hole he'd just helped Leonard through, and test it for soundness.

McCoy looked up to see the kid, huddled in the corner of the treehouse. There was a gaping emptiness on one side of the little room, where there should've been a wall, but wasn't, because the zip line came in instead. The whole setup looked like an accident waiting to happen. Or not waiting. He looked away from the non-wall, and focused on the kid, who looked to be about eight. He was huddled up against the wall, breathing fast and cradling his left arm as he cried. There was a puddle of vomit next to him. A large swelling was visible on the side of his head.

"Hey there, son, what's your name?"

"Jared Metz."

"Well, I'm Leonard, and I'm a paramedic with the fire department. My friend Christine is gonna hold your head still for me while I have a look at you. We're all are gonna help you out, and then we'll get you down from here and to the hospital, okay?"

"Okay."

McCoy moved to the side so Christine could stabilize the boy's head and neck. The boy's skin was sweaty and cool, and a little pale.

"Let's get some O2 on him. Jim, could you get the—" McCoy said, just as Kirk approached with an oxygen cylinder and a pediatric mask. "Thanks. We're gonna need a short spine board off the rig, and the pediatric cervical collars."

"Got it," Jim said. He radioed down for the immobilization devices to be added to the equipment on the Stokes.

"Jared, I'm putting this over your nose and mouth to help you breathe better," McCoy said. "It's just oxygen—it might help you feel a little better."

"Okay," Jared said in a small voice.

"What happened, here, Jared?" McCoy asked, as he gently palpated the boy's head and neck.

"I came down the zip line, and … and then I don't know. Then I was on the floor, and my arm was bent funny, and it really, really hurts!" Jared began sobbing in earnest.

"I know it does. It looks like you hit your head pretty hard, and it sounds like you got knocked out for a little bit," McCoy said, as he gently palpated a lump on the side of the boy's skull. "Now I want you to try to keep really still, so don't nod or shake your head when I ask you questions. Just say yes or no. Does your neck hurt at all?"

"A little. My arm hurts so bad!"

"I know, buddy," McCoy said, as he felt Jared's chest for any injuries. He felt the boy's chest rise and fall as he breathed, and listened quickly on both sides with his stethoscope. In the background, he could hear that the equipment was being hoisted up into the treehouse. Once he was sure there were no immediate life-threatening injuries, he took a look at the arm. The boy's forearm was badly misshapen, and was swollen and discolored, but he felt a good pulse in the wrist. "Can you wiggle your fingers?"

The boy managed to move his thumb slightly, but nothing else. "Okay, good," Leonard said, even though it really wasn't. "Can you feel what finger I'm touching right now?" McCoy asked, shielding the hand so the boy couldn't see.

"Middle one," Jared said. "And it's kind of tingly. All my fingers are pins and needles."

_Shit. _"Lemme tell you what's gonna happen. The rules are, if someone hurts their head like you did, we have to make sure their head and neck are safe until a doctor can get some x-rays. So we're gonna put a collar on your neck, and then put you on a thing that kind of looks like a funny sled, so your head and neck and back will stay straight. And I'm gonna put a splint on your arm, to keep it from moving around while the firemen get you down. They're gonna give you an elevator ride down, with ropes and pulleys."

"Is it gonna hurt?" Jared asked.

"The collar's pretty uncomfortable, and so is the backboard. And it'll hurt when I put your arm in the splint, but that'll keep it from moving around when we get you down."

Jared cried harder at the prospect of more pain, and McCoy wished to hell he could give him something, but with loss of consciousness and a lump on the head like that, he wasn't even going to ask medical control. He bit back a sigh as he reached for the bag of cervical collars. He sifted through the bag for the size he wanted, and set the collar on the floor. He took the boy's shoes and socks off, and tossed them aside.

"Jared, wiggle your toes for me, all right?"

All the toes wiggled nicely.

"And what toe am I holding?"

"Uh, big toe, but my feet don't hurt!"

"I know, buddy—I just have to check everything. What toe do I have now?"

"Baby toe."

"Good job, pal. Now, here comes the collar on your neck. Just hold still, and let us do all the moving," McCoy said, as he slipped the collar around the boy's neck and chin and secured it. He turned to reach for the short spine board, and found Jim already holding the board. Leonard slipped the board behind Jared's back, and did the straps up securely, ending with the blocks and straps that would hold Jared's head securely to the board. Chapel moved from stabilizing Jared's head to stabilizing his broken arm.

"Okay, pal. You're doing great, Jared. You're really helping out a lot by cooperating so well. I'm gonna splint up that arm now. That means wrapping it up in something that'll keep the broken bones from moving around and hurting."

"It's gonna hurt!" Jared yelled. "Don't touch it!"

"I'm sorry, buddy. I need to do it, to keep your arm safe," McCoy said, while he pulled the appropriate splint from the bag. "I'll be as quick and gentle as I can. Jim, why don't you help out by his feet, there." He looked at Kirk, to see if Jim understood what he was asking.

Jim nodded, and put his hands gently on Jared's outstretched legs, near the feet, ready to hold them down in case the boy started to struggle.

McCoy steeled himself, and, as he promised, he was as quick and gentle as possible, but that didn't stop Jared from shrieking bloody murder as his badly broken arm was moved, and moved again, padded, strapped into the splint, and finally, splint and all, secured to his chest. At the end, Jared threw up again, covering himself as well as McCoy's hands and forearms. Christine's hands were free at this point, and she cleaned them both up with a dampened towel, and replaced the oxygen mask with a fresh one.

McCoy and Christine moved Jared, whose screams had turned back to sobs, onto the long backboard that was already in the Stokes. After they secured him into the basket-like stretcher, Leonard took a second to brush Jared's forehead gently before rechecking the pulse in his wrist and the sensation in his fingers and toes.

"You're a super tough kid, Jared," he said. "Now Jim, the fireman, is gonna send you down, just like in an elevator, and we'll get you in the ambulance so you can go to the hospital."

"Can you go with me?" Jared asked, his voice small and ragged.

Leonard squeezed his eyes shut for a second. "I sure can, Jared. I'll see you at the bottom, okay? And don't tell anyone, but I'm really scared of heights, so you might have to hold my hand after I get down from here."

"Okay."

Leonard and Christine had just finished packing up their equipment to be lowered down to the ground when the end of the rope came back up to the treehouse.

"You go on down first, Chris; see how he's doing. I … might take a minute."

"All right." As she was meant to, Christine pretended, for the moment, that she hadn't heard McCoy's admission to Jared. She lifted the trap door, and stepped easily through the hole down to the ladder.

McCoy knelt on the floor, as far as he could get from the open edge of the treehouse, and watched as Jim sent the last of the equipment down and undid the rope and pulley setup he'd rigged up. Kirk packed the rope and pulley in the bag he'd brought them up in, and slung the bag on his shoulder.

"You know, you're pretty much my hero right now," Kirk said casually.

"What? Why?"

"I could see how much you hated coming up that ladder. And how you can't look at the open wall there. But you were perfect with that scared little kid. Just … perfect."

"Thanks," McCoy said quietly. "But I still have to get the hell down from here."

"I'll help you get started. So you only have to let go with one hand at a time."

"Thanks," McCoy said gruffly. "That's the part I don't like. Letting go of one thing, before I can reach the next one."

"I know." Jim dropped down to the floor. "All right, let's do this thing. You've got a patient down there."

McCoy crawled over to the edge of the hole, his stomach coiling in on itself. He dropped one leg down, flailing it around until it hit something solid—a rung. He gripped the rough plywood corner of the trap-door opening. He was sure his fingertips were white under the cover of the blue nitrile gloves he still wore.

Jim knelt down in front of McCoy, and grasped both his forearms firmly. "I gotcha. I'm not gonna let go until you say. All right?"

"'kay." McCoy took a second, and then moved his second leg down through the hole. As his weight shifted, he lost his grip on the edge of the floor, and made a noise he hoped to God nobody heard. But Kirk's hands held tight, squeezing his forearms and helping McCoy's hands stay connected to the structure.

"I gotcha. See?"

McCoy tried to settle his breathing, knowing the effects of hyperventilation would do nothing to help him get down the ladder.

"You ready to try moving your feet down lower?" Jim said, after a few seconds.

"Okay." McCoy cautiously felt around with one foot, until he found another rung, and then the next. He repeated the action, until his arms were nearly fully extended. For the next move, he'd have to let go of the edge.

"I gotcha, and I'm not letting go until you say," Jim said. He repositioned himself so he could reach down through the square hole to hold onto McCoy's forearms when he was ready to lower them. "Tell me which hand you're gonna move first, and I'll hold onto the other one."

McCoy risked a glance downwards, if only to find where his first handhold was. He found it, and looked up again immediately.

"Okay. I'm gonna move my right hand."

"I gotcha."

Leonard let go of the plywood corner, and fumbled until he found the handhold. Jim's grip was still strong on his left forearm.

"Now move your other hand down, and I'll hold on until you have a grip on that rung, okay?"

McCoy nodded shakily. He let go, shaking so hard he was sure Kirk could feel it, and reached down for the rung his right hand had already found.

"You got it," Jim said. "When you're ready, I'll let go. Keep three limbs connected to the ladder all the time, and you'll be fine. Three points of contact. And don't forget to breathe, now. Breathe."

McCoy took a deep breath, and let it out slowly. "All right. Let go."

Kirk's grip on his forearm relaxed slowly, so Leonard didn't feel like he was abruptly being dropped. "Three points of contact," he said to himself. He moved one foot, then the other, then one hand, then the other. "And repeat," he said to himself.

"You're doing great," Jim said. "About fourteen more steps, and you'll be on solid ground."

He repeated the process, for what seemed like forever, until he heard Jim's voice again. "Two more steps. One more. And you're down."

McCoy finally took his eyes off the tree trunk, and looked down at his feet. They were, in fact, on solid ground. He turned around, and nearly fell over backwards when he saw Jim Kirk standing in front of him.

"Jesus Christ! Are there _two_ of you? You were _just_ in the treehouse. I _saw_ you."

"Uh, I couldn't resist the zip line. I came down the other tree."

"Oh." McCoy cleared his throat. "Oh. Uh, thanks."

"No problem. See you back at the barn, Bones."

McCoy stripped off his mangled gloves, and shoved them into the red plastic bag on his way into the rig. He cleaned his hands with foam, and put on a new pair of gloves. Christine was sitting with Jared in the back of the rig, writing down numbers for a set of vitals on a cheat sheet. Jared looked better—much better—but it was time to get rolling.

"Thanks, Christine. Sorry that took so long."

"What? Oh, it wasn't that long, was it, Jared?"

"No," Jared said wanly. He had stopped crying so hard, even though his broken arm had to still be incredibly painful.

"How about if I drive us in," Christine said. "This isn't necessarily ALS, but …"

"Thanks," McCoy said. He'd been planning to ask her to drive anyhow, partly because he'd told Jared he would stay with him, and partly because he wasn't in the best shape at the moment. Lucky for his patient, he didn't really need to be.

"I want my mom," Jared said, after a few more seconds. "I told the fireman her number, and my dad's too."

"I'm sure they called your parents, kiddo. Do you want me to try again?"

"Yes," Jared said. "But—"

"What, champ?"

"I'm gonna be in really big trouble. It's a school day."

"Well, I think you and your folks can sort that out later. Right now, I bet your mom wants to see you as bad as you want to see her, so let's give her a call. Is she Mrs. Metz?"

Jared shook his head. "Temple. My mom and dad are divorced. Ow!" he said, and cried anew as the ambulance hit a bumpy patch of road.

McCoy blocked caller ID, and tapped the digits into his cell phone as Jared told him the number.

Jared's mother answered on the second ring, sounding breathless.

"Hello?"

"Ms. Temple, this is Paramedic McCoy from the fire department."

"Jared—is he okay? The firemen just called, and said he hurt himself in the treehouse!"

"Yes, ma'am, he did; he's got a nasty bump on the head, and a badly broken arm, but he's doing fine. We're on our way to St. Luke's, if you can meet us there."

"Of course—I'm already halfway there, so I'll be there soon. Uh, where do I go?"

"Go to the Emergency entrance; the receptionist there will help you."

"Thank you so much. Can you—can you tell Jared I love him very much, and I'll see him soon?"

McCoy was dying to hand his phone to the child, but that went against every rule in the book. "I certainly can."

After he hung up, McCoy delivered the message.

"She's not mad?"

"No, just like I said."

McCoy checked Jared's fingers again; he said they were still tingly but no worse than before. He radioed in to the hospital to give them a heads-up on the patient he was bringing in, and then settled in to his seat on the bench for the rest of the drive.

"We're probably just about to the hospital," McCoy said. "And your mom said it wouldn't take long for her to get there, either."

They drove on for another minute or so.

"Were you scared?" Jared said suddenly.

"Me? Oh yeah, you better believe it, buddy. I was scared out of my wits going down that ladder. But my fireman friend coached me down. It was a little less scary, having a coach."

"_You_ were _my_ coach," Jared said. "I was really scared, but you coached me."

"And you were a super champion, too, kiddo," McCoy said. He turned away briefly, so Jared wouldn't see him wipe his eye quickly with the back of his wrist.

"And here we are," Christine announced.

Leonard and Christine wheeled Jared into the ED, where his mother was indeed waiting. They left some notes with the charge nurse, exchanged the linens on the gurney for fresh ones, washed their hands, and slipped outside to the ambulance.

McCoy went to the driver's seat, and sat down heavily. Christine sat next to him, silent for a moment.

"That was a tough one," she said.

"It was," Leonard said. There really wasn't much he could add to that. Well, one thing. "He'll be fine, though."

"And you?"

"What about me?" McCoy said, scowling.

"Are _you_ okay? I don't think you were just trying to make the kid feel better by telling him you didn't like heights."

McCoy toyed briefly with the idea of trying to brush the whole thing off, but decided not to get off on the wrong foot with his new colleague. Kirk knew the truth, after all, so probably everyone else would soon as well.

"I practically crapped myself, but I'm fine."

Chapel nodded. "We don't often end up anywhere off the ground. I mean, I've been in a mangled back seat plenty of times, plenty of ditches and cornfields, and occasionally a pool, and once a gigantic pile of cow manure, but never a treehouse."

"Where I came from," Leonard said, "the firefighters were all EMT-Basics, and some paramedics too, so it was almost unheard of for us ambulance company people to get into anything other than a back seat."

"Believe me, this wasn't normal. Which is good, because if I remember right, you said you came out here so you could breathe."

"Yeah. Breathe. Lotta luck I've had with that today."

McCoy started the engine, and realized he had no idea where to go. "Which way back to the barn?"

Christine sighed, knowing she wasn't going to get anything else out of him. "Left out of the parking lot, and then get on the highway."

**TBC**


	3. Heat

**Chapter 3: Heat**

The rest of the morning, to Leonard's extreme relief, was much more like what he'd been expecting. They had one call for chest pain, in a fifty-year-old with no heart history, and one syncopal episode in an extremely thin-looking girl at the high school. That last call left both McCoy and Chapel ready for a good meal as they headed back to the station for lunch.

"This is a treat," McCoy said. "At the ambulance company, meals were every man for himself."

"You _think_ it's gonna be a treat, but it's Spock's day to cook," Chapel said, wrinkling her nose.

"What's the matter with Spock's cooking?"

"He's vegan," Chapel said. "Nearly all the protein he serves is beans, to stay under budget. I don't have anything against beans, in principle, and I'd bet he's way healthier than anyone at the station. But he undercooks everything—and I do mean _everything_. And undercooked beans—well."

"Digestive havoc," McCoy agreed. "Terrific." He decided this wouldn't be a good time to mention that he was a vegetarian. It would keep.

"It's not that I don't approve of his recipes—it's just how he makes them," Chapel continued.

"I heard the Beano would be on the table, though," McCoy said.

"That's the mixed blessing of the day shift," Chapel said. "Someone makes lunch, but you never know what you're going to get. When we do our night shifts, we don't do formal meals. Some people try to sleep when they can, but others don't bother. There's a pizza place that delivers until 3 a.m. They love us."

"Well, I hope it's at least edible, because I'm starving," Leonard said, as he carefully backed the ambulance into its slot in the apparatus bay.

They quickly restocked the rig with supplies they'd used on their last run, and entered the ready room.

The room smelled, in McCoy's opinion, terrific. The air was infused with the aroma of Indian spices. He was pretty sure he'd like the food, and he was looking forward to a hot meal after the way he'd been eating for the last few weeks.

"Hey, folks," Scotty said. "It's self-serve, eat-while-you-can," he explained, for Leonard's benefit. "I think the rest of us are done, so it's all you."

McCoy served himself up some brown rice, and topped it with the red lentil stew and a mixed vegetable dish. Chapel ate sullenly, pushing things around on the plate, and looking up occasionally at where Spock was busy packing up the leftovers. And in Leonard's learned opinion, she wasn't just looking—she was _looking_. He glanced at what looked like a diamond engagement ring on Chapel's finger, and recalled that Spock was married, and wondered what the story was there. He figured, though, that he was about as likely to find anything out about that as anyone was to find out about exactly why he fled Georgia. No, it would be a cold day in Savannah before he'd tell anyone here the whole story about Jocelyn; that was for god-damned sure.

Leonard looked at the slowly-fading dent on his own left ring finger, and tried to make his mind do a one-eighty—he didn't even want to _think_ about what had happened. But he was shit at not thinking about what he didn't want to think about, so he ended up eating just as sullenly as Chapel, even though he was, in theory, enjoying the food immensely.

He tried to focus on the food, not the mood, and eventually began enjoying the meal in fact instead of in theory. The others could think what they wanted about Spock's cooking, but in his opinion, he'd take it any day, and would go to Chez Spock, or Spock-tacular, or whatever he'd call the restaurant he damned well ought to open when he retired.

"The stew is called red lentils tarka, and the vegetable dish is seasoned with a spice mixture typical of the Goa region of India."

McCoy nearly knocked his chair over backwards as he was jolted out of his reverie by the well-modulated baritone voice coming from the seat around the corner from him.

"I apologize, Mr. McCoy; I did not intend to startle you."

"Oh, uh, I startle easily when I'm thinking about something else. This meal is amazing, Lieutenant Spock," Leonard said, recalling Pike's comment about how Spock preferred a certain degree of formality. Well, he was from the Deep South; he could handle that.

"Thank you. And although we know each other's names, I do not believe we have introduced ourselves properly. I am, as you already know, Lieutenant Spock. I have been working in this department for nine years eight months, and currently am the officer in charge of the ladder company."

"Nice to meet you. Leonard McCoy. Not much to say about myself that you haven't already heard."

"Indeed." Spock paused for a moment, in what McCoy would have sworn was discomfort. "May I speak frankly?"

McCoy resisted the urge to roll his eyes. Here came a comment about his hesitation and obvious fear of heights during the morning's first run. "Go right ahead."

"I am attempting to improve my understanding of human behavior, which various colleagues have expressed is a considerable weakness of mine. It appeared to me that you were uncomfortable with certain aspects of this morning's rescue. May I inquire if the difficulty pertained to the elevation?"

McCoy's eyebrows twitched. What was _with_ this guy? He'd've thought it was fairly obvious what the problem was. Maybe the guy did need to study 'human behavior,' as he so oddly put it.

"I don't like heights," he said. "Never will. I wasn't led to believe that I'd be in that kind of situation in this job, but I guess I was wrong."

"It is indeed highly unusual. However, through both first-hand observation and second-hand report, via Mr. Kirk, I am confident that you acquitted yourself admirably, despite your obvious discomfort."

Was that a compliment? Leonard had no idea. "Uh, I'm glad you think so. But I'd be lyin' if I said I enjoyed myself up there."

Spock did not reply, and somehow that didn't surprise Leonard. He didn't seem like the type of fellow to waste words. Odd guy; very odd. Reminded him of a kid he'd known back in Georgia; the kid had Asperger's Syndrome, and talked a little like Spock. But Spock couldn't possibly be like that; you had to be completely socially functional to do the kind of work he did—especially to be in charge of other people. Interesting.

"Has anyone explained the leftover food protocols to you?" Spock asked.

"Uh, no," McCoy said. _Protocols_, for Pete's sake.

"Leftovers are packaged and labeled with contents and date, and stored in the refrigerator for a maximum of one week. Any staff member may freely help him- or herself to leftovers. This practice tends to be particularly popular during the overnight shifts. However, I do not believe that you will encounter substantial competition for this meal's leftovers."

"Well, thank you kindly for that advice. I'll look for leftovers on tomorrow's night shift, because this is about the best Indian food I've ever had."

"Thank you."

With that, Spock disappeared as abruptly as he'd shown up. Very odd fellow indeed, McCoy thought.

McCoy was just putting his dishes in the dishwasher when the tones sounded.

"_Ambulance 2, respond to 2514 Fairway Drive for a 76-year-old male with altered mental status of sudden onset, history of CVA. 2514 Fairway Drive, 76-year-old male, altered mental status of sudden onset and history of CVA. 28-Charlie-5, 1341._"

_That's more like it_, McCoy thought. _Hopefully he won't be up a tree._

The patient did appear to be having a stroke, but was transported to the hospital in stable condition. The rest of the afternoon was occupied by a non-emergency patient who was working the system to get a free ride to the hospital, an elderly patient on blood thinners who was having a serious nose-bleed—he didn't look good at all by the time they got him to the ED doors—and a nursing-home patient with violent GI symptoms.

There were ten minutes left in the shift, and the ambulance, having experienced the side-effects of the GI symptoms, was still airing out on the concrete pad outside the apparatus bay when the tones sounded again, sending the engine and the ambulance to a one-car motor-vehicle accident. Chapel groaned in frustration, because she knew she wouldn't be getting off shift on time, but Leonard was secretly relieved. He believed Kirk's threat to take him out on the town at the end of the shift, so was glad the kid would be gone by the time he returned—the ladder truck didn't go to MVAs.

"Chapel, you drive," Pike ordered as they got ready to leave. "McCoy, switch to the Station Seven channel on the radio and I'll brief you on the way over."

"Yessir," McCoy acknowledged. He was glad Pike wanted to brief him; MVAs with an unstable scene and an unstable patient could be tricky in terms of incident command, and McCoy didn't want to tread on any toes. Chapel got the rig going, and McCoy switched his radio over an waited for Pike's call.

"Ambulance 2 from Engine 1."

"Go ahead."

"_Here's our SOP for this situation. I know you've read it in the manual, but I want to tell you again, since it's our first one. I'm in charge of the scene; you're in charge of the patient. You don't go near the vehicle until I say so. If extrication is required, you don't get in the car until I say so. Period. If you have a critical patient, inform me ASAP so I can get my people on the fastest means of extrication._"

"Copy," McCoy said. "I don't approach the car until you say; I don't enter the car until you say; I tell you ASAP if I need rapid extrication." It was completely standard, but McCoy didn't blame Pike one bit for making sure he understood the procedures, especially since he was coming from a different setting.

"_See you at the scene._"

Three minutes later, McCoy got the through-the-windshield view of a late-model sedan embracing a utility pole. He could see without getting out that the driver was thoroughly entrapped, and would likely be in bad shape, given the looks of the car. They pulled out their long spine board, their first-in bag, the monitor, the splint bag, and the trauma pack.

Pike and his crew approached the vehicle. Pike peered into the shattered windshield—it was an ominous sign to McCoy that he didn't seem to attempt to get the driver's attention. Gaila wrenched the hood open and cut the battery cables, as Chekov and Scotty made quick work of shoving an assortment of blocks under the vehicle to stabilize it. McCoy and Chapel waited a couple of yards away, ready to act on Pike's signal.

"McCoy, Chapel!" Pike called, as he gestured for them to approach.

"One patient," he said. "That I can see."

The front door was jammed shut. The driver was slumped over the steering wheel, blood staining the deployed airbag, white airbag powder everywhere. McCoy pulled open the back door.

"Chris, can you get in there and hold c-spine?"

Chapel got in behind the driver, quickly checking the floor of the backseat for other occupants.

"Sir? Can you hear me?" McCoy said, positioning himself in front of the patient, to keep him from turning his head to look if he in fact did respond. Which he didn't. He reached in and grabbed the man's earlobe and pinched it, hard. No response.

McCoy could hear ragged, irregular breathing, so the airway was open to some extent, and the patient was breathing. He felt a rapid, weak carotid pulse, and with his bare wrist, felt that the man's skin was cold, pale, and clammy—all bad signs. Except for the presence of pulse and respiration—McCoy could live with those.

He lifted the deployed airbag to inspect the steering wheel, and swore. The steering column was visibly damaged, and the man was firmly pinned between the steering wheel and the seat. There was a trickle of blood coming from his mouth, staining the airbag. He turned to Pike.

"Rapid extrication, let's go."

Chekov and Gaila were already prepared, with a variety of tools to open the car door. Their first and easiest option—prying it open with a halligan bar—was miraculously successful. Chekov pulled the door open, and he, Gaila, and Pike all put their weight into pushing the door open as far as possible.

"Chekov, take over on c-spine, from this side. Chris, you're in the front seat on his lower body. Gaila and I are on the upper body," McCoy barked. "Cap, Scotty, hold the backboard once I've got it under him.

The crew swung into action, and from their movements, a trained observer would never know this group hadn't done this operation together many times. McCoy shoved the backboard under the man's rear as far as he could without torquing the man's body. The patient, the two EMTs, and four firefighters were all crammed together in a space the size of a diner booth, standing on each other's steel-toed boots.

"We move him on your count, Chekov."

Chekov counted to three, and they turned the man's body as a unit and laid him flat on the backboard.

"Everyone, on Chekov's count, we slide him up to the top of the board."

Chekov counted again, and the man was in place on the backboard, with Chekov still holding his neck straight.

"Set him down right here; it's flat."

McCoy swiftly cut the man's clothing off and whipped through the rest of his initial assessment, first putting an oxygen mask over the man's mouth and nose.

"Chris—flail chest, left side."

"Got it," Chris said, and began preparing the necessary supplies to stabilize the injury.

"Absent breath sounds on the left. Respirations 26 and shallow. Pulse 130 and thready. BP 70 systolic. I'm doing two IVs NS, wide open, and then we're gonna wrap and run."

The man had shitty veins, made shittier by his low blood pressure. He was likely hemorrhaging internally, and the patient's only chance was to get some fluids in him and get him to the hospital instantly.

"I'm not fucking around with this," McCoy said after his first failed attempt at an IV. He grabbed the intraosseous drill from the pack and moved to the man's legs. The left one was badly broken. "Fuck."

He drilled a catheter into the marrow cavity of the man's right tibia, and connected the catheter to a bag of fluid. He taped the mess down.

"Wrap him up," he ordered.

Chapel had already put a rigid cervical collar on the man, and everyone's hands flew to secure the patient to the backboard. They carried him carefully over to the waiting stretcher, secured him down, and loaded the stretcher into the rig.

"I'm gonna go once more for a second line, and then we're out of here," McCoy said. He tried a different vein, and was successful in getting an IV established.

"Got it! Make your best time, Chris," McCoy said unnecessarily.

As they hit the road, McCoy surveyed the man's body for any additional injuries, and noted the already-stabilized flail chest, left upper quadrant bruising and rigidity, fractured left tibia, fibula, and femur, and facial injuries on his cheat sheet. He radioed the hospital to alert them to the imminent arrival of a multi-system trauma patient, and gave them a run-down on the man's condition. The only thing the guy had going for him, really, was a rapid response time, and the fact that the accident occurred ten minutes from a Level-I trauma center.

McCoy took one more set of vitals—the good news was that nothing had gotten worse, which was about all he could expect. The ambulance was met in the bay by a trauma team. McCoy gave his run-down once more, and the patient was whisked away. They retrieved their stretcher, cleaned it up, restocked, and, bone tired, returned to the station, arriving over half an hour after their shift was supposed to have ended.

Pike was on one of the computers finishing his paperwork from the last run. McCoy sat at the next one, and filled out his report.

"Nice work today," Pike said. "Especially at that MVA. Which, I mean, was the only one of your runs that I saw, but it was very smooth."

"Thanks," McCoy said. "Hopefully it was smooth enough for our patient. He was in rough shape when we turned him over at the hospital."

"They won't mind if you ask for disposition tomorrow night," Pike said.

"Not sure if I want to know," McCoy replied, "but thanks. I'll probably ask." He closed his file, cracked his knuckles, and groaned.

"Think I'll hit the shower and head out. Have a good night."

"You too. See you tomorrow evening."

McCoy plodded into the locker room, and shrugged himself out of his uniform. With a towel around his waist, he went to investigate the shower situation.

"Hey, Bones! We still on for drinks?" a voice chirped from what seemed like right next to his head.

"Jesus _Christ_!" Leonard shouted, reeling backwards into a bank of lockers, and very nearly losing control of his towel. "Fuck, Kirk! You scared the _shit_ outta me!"

"Oops. Sorry," Jim said.

He didn't look the least bit sorry as McCoy glared at him.

"Go ahead, have a shower—I heard about your last run. You get him there alive?"

McCoy nodded. "Barely," he replied, as his heart rate settled down to something approaching the normal range for a man of his age and general physical condition.

"Awesome. Well, I'll be in the day room. Come grab me when you're ready to be awed by the Cedar Rapids night life. On a Tuesday."

McCoy's mind boggled at the kid's assumption that they were actually going to bars, or clubs, or whatever the hell he had in mind. Leonard stepped into the shower, and decided that he'd at least go to the ready room and tell the kid he was too tired for any such thing, and then get straight into his van and leave.

Though it might also be amusing just to leave.

No, Leonard thought, rinsing shampoo out of his hair. No good reason to start burning bridges on the very first shift. Plus, Jim had really been pretty professional and helpful with the whole ladder thing. He'd talk to Kirk before he left. But no way in hell was the kid getting him into a bar. Or a club. Or whatever the fuck they had in Iowa.

~!~!~!~

"Can I get you two another beer?" the waitress said.

"Just a Coke for me, thanks," Jim said. "Gotta drive and all."

"Make mine a Diet Coke, please, miss," McCoy said.

"Oooh, I _love_ your accent!" the young woman said. "Where are you from?"

"Georgia," McCoy replied, trying to sound as much as possible like he was from Iowa.

"I _thought_ so," the waitress said. "My cousin lives in Atlanta, and you sound _just_ like him."

McCoy didn't miss the young woman's glance at his left hand. She turned slowly, as if offering him a 360-degree view, and returned to the bar, got their sodas, and came right back to the table.

"Here you are," she said, setting the drinks on the table. "Can I get _y'all_ anything else?" She giggled at her own cleverness.

"Just the pizza, whenever it's ready," McCoy said, doing his best not to roll his eyes.

The waitress returned to the kitchen.

"Bones, she was _totally_ checking you out. And she's hot, too. You gotta teach me that accent," Jim said.

"I don't really think you can just—"

"And holy shit! Look at that!" Jim pointed to the napkin under Leonard's soda.

She'd written her name and number on it.

"Jesus," McCoy muttered. "Here. I'll trade you." He shoved the napkin at Kirk, lifted Jim's glass, and took the damp napkin from underneath it.

"Seriously?"

McCoy silently nursed his soda.

"What, she's not your type?"

"No," McCoy said. "Fatuous, simpering women half my age aren't my type."

"Oh, c'mon, Bones—half your age?"

"I'm thirty-two."

"She's gotta be at least eighteen, to be serving booze."

"Still fatuous and simpering, though. And eighteen is too young for thirty-two."

"All right, all right." Jim chugged a third of his Coke. "So, tell me about your ex."

McCoy glowered across the booth at him. "We are not, repeat, _not_, having this conversation. Besides, how do you even know I have an ex?"

"The dent on the finger, and the fact that you fled Georgia for some reason you're not saying."

"Fine, I have an ex. End of discussion."

"What's she like? And what the hell did she do to piss you off so bad? I mean, not that it doesn't seem like it'd be easy to piss you off, because—"

"I _don't_ wanna _discuss_ it!"

Jim put his hands up defensively. "Sorry, sorry! I'm just trying to be friendly. Because to be honest, you look like you could use a friend."

McCoy stared into his drink. The kid was absolutely right, and he really was just trying to be nice. He'd been nice, in a puppy-doggish kind of way, from the instant they'd met. Hell, he'd gotten him out of a bind earlier that day, the first day they met, waited for him after the shift, even though he was late, and took a grumpy, sour old guy he didn't know from Adam out to a completely reasonable pizza place, and got nothing in return but snarkiness and hostility.

"Sorry," Leonard said, still staring into his drink.

"It's all right," Jim said mildly.

"No, it's not," Leonard said, finally looking up and really looking at the kid's face. He must not have really looked at him before, or else the lights in the pizza joint were doing funny things, because Kirk's eyes were a completely unreasonable shade of sapphire. "You've been nothing but nice—well, okay, a little annoying, too. And I've been nothing but nasty. I apologize."

"Apology accepted." Jim looked across the table at his companion. On the one hand, he didn't look thirty-two—there was no trace of gray in his hair, no wrinkles on his face, except a double furrow between his eyes, which Jim suspected was just part of his expression these days. On the other hand—the eyes. Yeah, they looked older than the hills. Jim knew about that, from looking at his mother.

The waitress brought their pizza to the table.

"Thanks, I think we're set for now," Jim said. He used the spatula that came with the pie to serve a slice to McCoy, and then to himself. They started eating, neither one speaking.

McCoy finally put his slice down.

"Look," he said. "I left Savannah because I had a nasty break-up. Really nasty. The kind that leaves you with nothing—no friends, no _nothing_—and the kind that wasn't my fault. I mean, our relationship was going to hell, I admit that, but it _wasn't_ my fault that I came home sick one day and found Jocelyn in our bed with one of my co-workers. Who I _thought_ was also one of my friends."

"Ouch," Jim said.

"Yeah, 'ouch.' To make a long story short, there were enough people who took the other side, and who thought Joss and I shouldn't have been together in the first place, that … well, in a town the size of Savannah, and in the line of work I was in, I had to go. Wanted to get away anyhow. So I looked at jobs at least a thousand miles away, and this seemed like the best fit."

"That sucks."

"Yep. It completely, utterly sucks. So now you know why I'm here. And why I'm such an asshole."

Jim squinted at Leonard. "I don't think you're an asshole. Cupcake—now, _he's_ an asshole. He's a shit to his wife, tries to get away with crap at work every shift, et cetera, et cetera."

McCoy frowned. "Who's Cupcake?"

"Oh—he was probably introduced to you as Carl Jablonski. My partner. Don't get me wrong—he's a good firefighter. I trust my life to him every time we do something dangerous. Which is fairly often. But he's a lousy excuse for a human being otherwise."

"Ah. Actually, he's the only one on the shift I haven't spoken to yet."

"Like I said—asshole. Who _doesn't_ go talk to the new guy on his first day? Him, that's who."

"To be fair, I wasn't exactly forthcoming myself."

"Yeah, but you and the Steeple were running all day. Us ladder guys had a pretty easy shift. So as far as I'm concerned, _he_ shoulda caught _you_, not vice versa."

"That's mighty generous of you," McCoy said. "Because maybe I didn't really make an effort with anyone except Chapel. Now that I'm thinking about it."

Jim talked around a huge bite of pizza. "Well, you just said you found your ex in bed with one of your former co-workers. That could've had something to do with it, maybe."

"Maybe." McCoy returned his attention to his pizza, and suddenly realized he was starving. He plowed through the rest of the slice, and another, and looked up to see Kirk watching him, a bemused expression on his face.

"What?"

"Nothing. I just thought you actually liked Spock's lunch, and ate plenty of it. And now you're going at that pizza like you haven't had a square meal in a week."

_Triple that, and you'd be about right_, McCoy thought. "Just hungry. That last run took a lot outta me." He finished his half of the pie right at the same time Kirk finished his.

"So where do you live, anyhow?" Kirk asked.

"Uh, I've got a place not far from the station." _Well, it was technically true_, McCoy thought.

"Huh. I wouldn't have thought there was much around there," Kirk said. "I live down in Riverside—where I grew up, actually."

"I'm not so up on the geography around here," McCoy said, glad Kirk volunteered his own information, to take the conversation away from McCoy's arrangements.

"South of Iowa City. About forty minutes from here. I really oughta get a place up here, I suppose, but—well, my mom lives down there, and my brother and his kids, and I help out on the farm sometimes."

"You don't …"

"No, I don't live with my mother. That'd cramp my style, real bad. Hoo boy, I can't even think about that. What a nightmare." Kirk shuddered, and McCoy didn't think it looked feigned.

"Sorry I assumed," McCoy said dryly.

The perky waitress appeared once more. "Do _y'all_ need anything else?" she asked, apparently having decided she liked the word.

"Just the check, please," Jim said.

"Shore thang, hon."

McCoy rolled his eyes at the extremely poor southern accent.

"Okay, so maybe you're right," Jim said. "She does seem like kind of a moron. But she _is_ hot, though."

"I've never been very good at seeing past idiocy," McCoy said.

"That's not exactly a character flaw, Bones," Jim said.

McCoy snorted. "No, I guess not."

The waitress returned with their check, which Jim immediately snatched out of her hand.

"This one's on me, Bones," Jim said.

"Now, c'mon, kid; I wanted to get it. B'sides, I never properly thanked you for bailing my ass out of that tree this morning."

"You did, actually. You said 'thanks,' right after you accused me of having an evil twin."

"But—"

"No 'buts,' Bones. I'll tell you what—you get the next one, all right?"

"Sure. Thanks, Jim. For dinner, and for saving my ass."

"You're welcome."

Jim tossed cash on the table, and they both stood up.

"Not gonna take that phone number with you?" McCoy asked.

"Nah. In the first place, it was for you. In the second place, she really _was_ a moron. Even if she was hot. Say—you know how to get where you're going from here?"

"Yeah—no problem. I'll see you tomorrow evenin', then."

"Great. I actually love the two night shifts," Kirk said. The department followed a fairly standard schedule of two day shifts, followed by two night shifts, followed by four days off.

"Yeah, I worked a lotta nights in Savannah as well. Anyhow—thanks again, and see you tomorrow," McCoy said, as they went to their vehicles.

"Wait a sec—you probably don't know anything around here. So lemme give you my cell number, in case you're trying to find … I don't know, a place to buy a lamp, or underwear, or liquor, or whatever. If you even drink. Don't tell me you're one of those totally straight-laced people like Spock, now are you?"

"Ah … that would be a resounding 'no,'" McCoy said. "I drink plenty, believe me. I just don't mix it with gettin' behind the wheel." _Not to mention the 'not being able to stop' part._

"Good," Kirk said quietly, with a look on his face McCoy couldn't quite place. "Good. Anyhow—here's my number, just in case." He rattled out seven digits.

"Uh, what's the area code around here?"

"Oh—sorry. 319. And what's your number?" Jim asked.

McCoy gave his 912 area code along with his number.

"See you tomorrow, then," McCoy said. "Thanks again for dinner, and the help this morning. And for taking pity on a cranky old man."

"You're not old, and you have a good excuse for being cranky. The 'man' part I'll agree with, though." Kirk swung his keys. "See ya."

"Later," McCoy said. He stepped into his van, and headed to the state park that was his temporary home. The next two paydays couldn't come soon enough.

**TBC**


	4. Chemical Chain Reaction

**Chapter 4: Chemical Chain Reaction**

McCoy forced himself to stay up as late as he could that night. It wasn't easy: he didn't have much to do. He had his laptop, but no wi-fi. No TV, obviously, since he was living in a freaking van. He'd tried to get a library card a couple days ago, but he wasn't able to provide a shred of proof that he actually lived in Linn County, so they turned him down. Now that he had his department ID, they might believe him; he'd try again tomorrow.

He eyed the bottle of bottom-shelf bourbon he'd bought with his nearly-maxed-out credit card the previous day. No, he decided; starting might mean not stopping, and that wouldn't be good for his sleep, which wouldn't be good for his first night shift at his new job. Instead, he started yet another game of Minesweeper. When he tired of that, he'd go back to Scrabble for a little while, and then maybe some more Freecell.

In the middle of what Leonard thought might be his twelfth game of Scrabble, his phone rang. It was a Savannah area code, but he didn't recognize the number, so he picked up, partly out of curiosity—it _was_ nearly two a.m.—and partly in case it was actually important.

"Hello?"

"_Leo, don't hang up—please_."

Leonard paused. He'd blocked Jocelyn's number, and all the numbers he knew from Savannah. He should've just blocked the entire fucking area code. He should hang up—he really should. But what the fuck.

"Okay, Joss," he sighed. "What do you want?"

"_I understand why you don't want to talk to me._"

McCoy laughed a hollow chuckle. "You do, huh? Well, maybe you shoulda thought of that _before_ you started sleeping with Marie. What was it, a year ago? Is that about right? And you _definitely _shoulda thought of it before I came home that day. That woulda been good, don't you think?"

There was a few seconds of silence on the line. "_Look. I deserve everything you need or want to dish out right now. And more. But here's the thing. I just want to see if you're okay. I still care—_"

Leonard exploded. "Don't you _dare_ say you still care about me. _Don't you dare!_"

Another silence. "_All right. I won't say it. Even though it's true._"

"Fuck you, Joss. Just—fuck you. I wasn't enough for you, and you didn't even have the decency to say so. I knew you were bisexual—you were up front about that. I'll give you that. But that doesn't excuse screwing around behind my back. God, I've never wished more that we could just get a divorce. That would make things so much simpler."

"_But we can't, and you know it. It doesn't work that way_."

"We sure as fuck can't. If it'll make you happier, I'll do like they do in Saudi Arabia, and say 'I divorce thee' three times. And then it's official. Or as official as it can be, without actually being real. Would you like that?" Leonard spat.

"_I … you know, I guess I would, actually,_" Jocelyn said, finally. "_But Leo—you didn't take _any_ of your things with you. Can I at least send you some things? Some of your books, or … anything? I mean, I don't even know where you are._"

"I thought I made it pretty clear that I didn't _want_ you to know where I was. I'm over a thousand miles away, just like I said I'd be. More than that, I'm not ready to say at this point."

"_All right. But …_"

"Look. In a few weeks, when I'm …" _not homeless anymore,_ "more settled, I'll give you a post office address where you can send some things."

"_Good. Because I know how much you like having your books around you, and there are a lot of things from your family in the house, and … well. I just wish you hadn't left with nothing._"

"At the time, I felt like no matter what I took, I'd still be leaving with nothing."

"_I know_."

McCoy sighed. "If you feel like doing me a favor, you can put anything you want to in storage somewhere, then send me the key, and I'll come down and get it sometime when I get some time off."

"_I'll do that_."

"Thank you." _That was civil_, Leonard thought.

"_Could you do me a favor, too?_"

"What?"

"_Say it. Like they do in Saudi Arabia. Please._"

Leonard's heart felt heavy, like it was trying to push its way through his diaphragm into his abdominal cavity. The lump in his throat got harder and tighter. But he swallowed it down, because he had something to say.

"I divorce thee. I divorce thee." Tears sprang up in Leonard's eyes. "I divorce thee."

He pressed "End" on his cell phone to sever the connection. He pressed it again. And again. And again.

He found the plastic bottle of shitty bourbon and opened it anyhow.

~!~!~!~

The phone rang again, jolting Leonard out of sleep. He didn't remember filling his mouth with cotton, the night before, and didn't remember ordering an in-head delivery of an entire drum corps, but he'd gotten them anyhow. He checked the caller ID—Jim Kirk. Fuck.

"'lo," he grunted.

"_Bones! You sound like shit._"

"Feel like shit. Time is it?"

"_Uh, almost two o'clock. Fuck. I woke you up, didn't I._"

"Oughta be awake anyhow. Jesus. Fuck, hang on a second." He reached for a bottle of water, swished a mouthful around, and swallowed it. "Okay. Sorry. What's goin' on?"

"_Just wanted to see if you wanted to grab a bite before our shift. Sounds like maybe it was good I called, huh? Wouldn't be good not to show up for your second shift._"

Well, that was a fact. "True." He sipped some more water, cautiously. "Yeah. A diner or something would be great. Tell me where and when, and I'll show up. And I'll even try not to be a grumpy ol' bastard."

"_Aw, now, Bones—that's no fun. So I'm thinking, the Queen Diner is about a mile west of the station, on the same road. You can find that, right?_"

"God, I hope so. Because if I can't find the station, I'm _really_ fucked."

"_You _sound_ pretty fucked. Everything okay?_"

_No, you idiot child, everything is not fucking okay!_ Leonard wanted to shout. "Fine. Just stayed up too late, I guess." _And had about five drinks too many_.

"_Well, I don't actually believe you, but we'll talk about that later. See you at the Queen at four-ish?_"

"Great. See you then. And we won't talk about it, just in case you're wondering."

Leonard put his phone down, and surveyed his environment. He rooted around on the floor, and found the bottle of bourbon. He was relieved to see that it was still over half full. So he hadn't done as much drinking as he'd feared. He had some more water, and downed a banana to cushion the four ibuprofen he swallowed next, and started to feel like maybe he wasn't all that hung over after all. Mostly just messed up from turning his sleep schedule halfway upside down. Well, okay. A little hung over, too. But not so bad that he was still drunk. That was something.

He gathered his towel, toiletries bag, and a change of clothing, and walked to the park's bathroom for a shower. There wasn't any competition at all at two on a Wednesday afternoon, so he took his time. He wondered, while he was in the shower, why Jim seemed to be making him his own personal project. He couldn't for the life of him come up with a plausible reason. The kid just seemed so … everything McCoy wasn't. Young, bright, happy, confident, easy-going. But, he decided he didn't really care. The kid was growing on him, in a funny sort of way.

~!~!~!~

Leonard found the Queen Diner without difficulty. Even at four pm, the parking lot showed that the place was popular. Leonard parked the van, and was immediately hailed when he climbed out.

"Bones! Hey, over here!"

Jim was leaning against a car—some kind of classic, he was sure, but Leonard couldn't give less than a shit about vehicles, so he didn't know what it was.

"It's a scorcher today, isn't it?" Jim said.

Leonard laughed out loud. "It's what—eighty five?"

"Right. Georgia. Well, anything over sixty is hot when you're in turnout gear."

"Oh. I guess it would be. That stuff looks pretty heavy."

It was Kirk's turn to laugh. "It's basically an ironing board cover with a raincoat on top of that, and a Kevlar coat on top of _that_. Sometime after a day shift I'll dress you up in all my gear, and throw an air pack on you."

"That's a good idea, actually."

"Huh? I was kidding," Kirk said, as he waved to a waitress and plunked himself down in a booth.

"I'm not. I know nothing about what you guys do, so it's only fair."

"Okay. You're on." Kirk handed McCoy a menu from a pocket on the wall. "Don't get the corned beef hash—it's straight from a can. Everything else is good."

"I don't eat meat anyhow," McCoy said, as he looked over the menu. Shit. He hadn't meant to say that.

"Wow—that has to be a department record—two vegetarians on one shift," Kirk replied, not batting an eye. "Do you eat eggs and shit?"

"I try to not go crazy with the cholesterol, but yeah, I eat eggs. But not shit."

"Good—because to be honest? You look hung over. So get eggs."

McCoy scowled. "Fine, mother. I'll get eggs."

The waitress came and took their order, blessedly managing to do so without commenting on Leonard's accent.

"So what'd you do last night, after pizza, to make you sleep till two, and get you looking like that?"

McCoy scowled harder. "I already told you. I drink plenty. Just not when I'm gonna drive."

"So … why?"

"Because, and I'd think you'd know this by now, alcohol impairs your coordination and—"

"No, why'd you drink so much?"

McCoy sighed. What the hell. "If you must know—"

"I must! I must!" Jim was practically bouncing up and down.

"If you _must_ know," McCoy repeated, wondering why the hell he was talking about this, "my ex called. It wasn't a pleasant conversation."

"Oh." Jim fiddled with his silverware. "Sorry."

"Yeah. Thanks. I wasn't actually planning on saying anything to anyone around here about any of this, and I don't know why I said anything to you, actually, so …"

"My lips are sealed," Kirk said, miming locking his lips with a key and tossing the key over his shoulder. "Whatever you do," he said to the people in the booth behind him, "don't give that back to me."

McCoy finally looked up from his detailed inspection of the formica tabletop. The diner was decorated with various pictures of female royalty. Each booth had its own framed picture or poster hanging on the wall next to it. Their wall was graced with Queen Beatrix of the Netherlands. Behind the counter, however, all the pictures were of the band "Queen." Freddie Mercury was everywhere. McCoy's eyebrows climbed his forehead heroically, trying to reach his scalp.

"Ah—I see you found the homage to Freddie," Jim said, following Leonard's gaze.

"Yeah—now, _that's_ not something I'd've expected in Iowa, quite frankly."

"The owner's a friend of mine from way back. Major Queen fan. Between you and me, he didn't think he could get away with having a Freddie Mercury themed diner, so he, uh, broadened his horizons a bit."

"By adding some broads," McCoy finished for him, "who also happen to be queens. I get it."

"Doesn't bother you, does it?" Jim asked.

"What do you mean?"

"The homage to Freddie? And yes, my friend I'm talking about is gay as a maypole, if that's what you're assuming. So, does it, or doesn't it?"

"Bother me? Uh, no. Should it?"

"No. Just wondering. Since Georgia is one of the reddest of the red states."

McCoy rolled his eyes. "Just 'cause a guy's from a red state, doesn't mean he's a redneck. And Iowa's not exactly San Francisco, either, if you catch my drift, so you shouldn't talk."

"All right, all right! I was just …"

McCoy squinted. "You were just what?" Jim was playing some kind of game with him, and he was damned if he could figure out what it was. But when he was honest with himself, Leonard realized he was intrigued. He decided to play along—see what would happen.

"Nothing." Jim played with his water glass, and took a sip.

Leonard didn't know what the game was, but he knew what his next move should be. "You're just trying to tell me that just because you're a fireman, doesn't mean you're a narrow-minded, homophobic, gun-totin', woman-bashin' caveman?"

"Maybe."

"So, then, maybe I'll tell you that just because I come from from a state so red it needs a tourniquet, I'm none of those things either. Is that fair?"

"Yeah."

"Well, I'm glad we got _that_ out of the way," Leonard said. "Whatever it was."

The waitress arrived with mugs of coffee.

"Thanks, DeeDee," Jim said.

"What _was_ that, anyhow?" McCoy said.

"It was …" Jim sighed. "It's complicated."

"Oh, I'm no stranger to complicated," Leonard said dryly. "Try me."

Jim toyed with the napkin dispenser. "This wasn't how this was supposed to go."

"Uh huh," Leonard said. "I bet. You like to be in charge of your own games. I don't know what the game is, but I bet I made a move that was supposed to come later. If at all."

They sat there, waiting each other out. McCoy knew he'd win _that_ part of the game; he was a master at saying his piece and waiting. But the kid was really troubled about something; _that_ he could see. As for what this was all about, though, he'd just have to wait for it.

The waitress brought their food, took one look at the tableau in front of her, and quietly walked away.

"It wasn't a game," Jim said, finally looking up at McCoy.

"Then what was it?" Leonard said, his voice calm and gentle, rather than challenging or angry.

"It was a test," Jim said, practically whispering.

"A test?"

"I had to make sure … I can trust you."

McCoy blinked.

"Trust me with _what_? You barely know me."

Jim looked down again.

"Trust you with my life. On the job. Because," Kirk said, looking up again, "if something really bad happens, it's up to you."

McCoy found he wanted to squint and raise his eyebrows at the same time, but it just wasn't possible.

"Of _course_ I'd take care of you. I'd take care of a total stranger, so of _course_ someone I work with. Why would you think I wouldn't?"

Jim didn't say anything, not for many seconds. He looked at his food, and shoved it towards the wall.

"_Maybe I should just let you die,_" he whispered.

McCoy froze. He could tell, from Jim's tone, though, that this was a quotation, and not a threat directed at him. But it chilled his blood nonetheless.

"_One less queer in the world. And the worst kind, too—the kind who might accidentally pass his genes on someday, if some sick woman let you fuck her, even though your dick has probably been up more asses than cunts._"

Jim looked up. "That's what he said to me. In the back of the ambulance." He looked down at his hands, which were busy shredding a napkin into tiny pieces of fluff.

"Who, Jim? Who said that to you?" McCoy knew, rationally, that you couldn't feel your own blood pressure rising, but at that moment, he forgot that fact.

"Your lovely predecessor. In the back of the rig. I had a concussion, heat exhaustion, and more than a minor case of smoke inhalation—wasn't doing so hot. He shut off the oxygen, making sure I could see him do it. He took the IV line, and held it right in front of my face as he kinked it so nothing was getting through. He put his face right next to mine, and that's what he said."

"Jesus."

"I don't know how he found out about me. But I sure knew he hated me. Was sickened by me. I also knew I wasn't _really_ going to die, no matter what he did right then. But I also knew perfectly well, with my job being what it is, and his job being what it was, that the next time, it might be different."

In that moment, it all came together for McCoy. Jim's intense interest in him, right from the get-go. His odd desire to get to know the new paramedic, from the second he pulled into the parking lot. Bringing him here, to see his reaction to the Freddie Mercury display.

"Jim," McCoy said in low tones, "I'm not like that. Okay?"

Jim started demolishing a second napkin, and the pile of confetti in front of him grew.

"I don't care who you sleep with," McCoy said quietly. "Man, woman, outer-space aliens, all of the above at the same time—it doesn't matter. All right?"

Jim's fingers worked nimbly at the napkin. He finished number two, and reached for the dispenser to swipe a third. McCoy caught his hand.

"Stop, Jim. Look at me," he ordered, still using tones so low as to be inaudible to the people behind Jim. "Look at me."

Jim's hands stilled, and he looked up.

"I'm not like him."

"Okay," Jim said finally. He still looked, to Leonard, like he wanted to fold himself up and disappear. He held onto the eye contact, and Leonard let his hand go.

"I don't think you wanted me to know as much about you as I do," Leonard said.

"It wasn't supposed to go that far," Jim whispered. "I just wanted to see how you reacted when I told you about my friend who owns this place. See if I could trust you. That was all. You weren't supposed to get the whole story."

"Well, I got it."

"And you're not going to tell anyone? About me? 'Cause that's the part that wasn't supposed to happen. You figuring out … that part."

"I'm not going to tell anyone. That's your business. And I'm _not_ gonna let you die. I don't care if a guy is wearing makeup and a dress, or if he's got a shaved head with a swastika tattooed on it—I take care of them. I don't care if he's black, or brown, or green. I don't care if he's the mayor, or a drug addict we found in a gutter. I don't care if he's having a psychotic break and is doing his level best to pluck my eyeballs out and eat them. I don't care if my patient is my ex, or my supposed friend who I found in bed with my ex. Everyone gets my best. _Everyone_."

"Okay." Jim compressed his confetti into a ball, and wrapped it up in another paper napkin. "Sorry."

Leonard reached across the table, and shoved Jim's plate back in front of him, and unrolled his own silverware from the neat napkin-wrapped bundle.

"Apology accepted. Now, I think we better chow down, because you look like crap, and I feel like you look, and we both have a busy night ahead of us."

**TBC**

A/N: The "fire tetrahedron" is a model of the required conditions for a fire to ignite and be maintained. Fuel, heat, and oxidizing agent (usually oxygen) and a chain reaction must all be present for a fire to start and continue.


	5. Fire

**Chapter 5: Fire**

Two weeks' worth of shifts came and went. McCoy got to know all his shift-mates, at least a little bit. Pike was a natural leader—the kind that made his people _want_ to please him, and want to not let him down. Scotty and Sulu, the two apparatus operators, were fast friends, despite their vast differences in personality and habits. McCoy did in fact make the mistake of going drinking alone with Scotty—once. Next time, he vowed there'd be at least two others along, so he could drink at a sane pace and not look like a wuss. Chekov was definitely over-eager, but also very smart. Spock remained a puzzle—he was precise, perhaps over-articulate, and very intelligent, but 'aloof' was too mild of a word to apply.

Kirk was right—Jablonski was a total ass. He was loud, surly, messy, a terrible cook, and a sexist pig. McCoy heard the story of how he and Gaila had been partnered briefly and messily. He hadn't exactly broken any rules; hadn't done anything he could be disciplined for, but he'd managed to make it very clear that he didn't think a woman could do the job, despite Gaila's five years of service to the department. As far as McCoy could tell, people tolerated him because he was extremely good at his job. He was also the strongest person on the team, hands down. But he ended up in Pike's office every third or fourth shift, for one reason or another.

Chris Chapel was also very good at her job. She was so good that Leonard sometimes wondered—but never asked—why she remained a Basic EMT. It was her own damned business, and Leonard knew better than anyone that people had their own reasons for what they did.

_He_ certainly did.

And Jim Kirk. McCoy was half expecting that once Jim realized Leonard wasn't a Nazi who would leave him to die because he didn't care for his sexual preferences, Jim would just leave him alone. But he didn't. And despite himself, despite promising himself that he'd stay professional and detached at work, and seek friendships and social connections elsewhere, Leonard found himself spending quite a bit of time with Jim, both at the station and off shift.

One of the first things McCoy noticed about working for the fire department was the near absence of any fires.

"It's a different kind of job, now, than it was even twenty years ago," Jim explained to him, over a cup of coffee, in the small yard outside the station, on a cool morning. "Smoke detectors, heat detectors, sprinkler systems, non-flammable construction materials, building codes—we've made so much progress. Now, we get a lot of alarm panel activations, smoke detectors and CO detectors going off, and plenty of accidents of various kinds—but not a lot of fires."

"But most of the training I see you guys doing—it's for fires," Leonard said.

Jim nodded. "Ah. Well, most of that other stuff doesn't kill you as fast when you have to deal with it. So yeah, we put a lot of work into being ready for things that don't happen very often, because when they _do_ happen, they're way more dangerous to us than most of those other things."

"I hadn't thought of it that way, but it makes sense. I mean, we have to put a lot of learning time into procedures we don't do very often, but are critical when we do use them. Chest decompression. Needle cricothyroidotomy. Invasive procedures that can save someone's life, or injure them worse if you do them wrong," Leonard said.

"Same idea, you're right. We can save a burning structure, if we're there soon enough and we play our cards right, but if we screw up, or any number of unforeseen things happen, we can kick the bucket. Or worse."

"What's worse?" McCoy asked, wondering if Jim's worst case scenarios were anything like his own.

"Get burned up, but live. Or, worse than that, run out of air, but live, as a vegetable. That's worse, in my book."

"Mine too," McCoy said quietly. "That's for sure. Sometimes, with some of my patients—mostly the ones who've been without oxygen for one reason or another—I think it would be kinder to—well. It's a moot point. There are strict rules about when we can stop treatment in the field. Real strict."

"Unless you're, say, out to get someone," Jim said.

McCoy sighed. "I don't suppose you reported my predecessor's behavior, did you?"

"No. There's kind of a … I don't know."

Leonard rolled his eyes. "An unwritten rule that you don't rat on one of the brothers. Right. But he threatened you, Jim; shouldn't that be an exception?"

"Well, as it turns out, I didn't _have_ to rat on him."

McCoy's eyebrows shot up. "Oh? He got caught in an act of some kind?"

Jim shook his head. "Violated some kind of protocol. Did something without permission, that he was supposed to contact the hospital about. Wasn't the first time it'd happened, either, apparently. They pulled his card. He moved away. I don't know what he's doing, now. Don't particularly care, either, as long as it has nothing to do with human beings."

"One can hope." McCoy plucked a blade of grass, and another, and another, forming a small pile in front of him.

"Anyhow—don't worry. You'll get to see a whopping big fire eventually. There's always an ambulance standing by at the scene of a working fire, so you'll be there."

"Terrific," McCoy said dryly. "Just what I always wanted—to see my friends go charging into the mouth of the beast."

"And up ladders," Kirk added, grinning ferociously. "Really, really, really tall ladders."

McCoy showered him with the pile of grass he'd plucked.

~!~!~!~

It was early afternoon of the second day-shift of McCoy's fifth rotation when it finally happened.

"_Engine 1, Ladder 1, Engine 5, Ambulance 2: Report of smoke and flames from first floor windows, no entrapment suspected, at 2569 72__nd__ Avenue Southwest; 2-5-6-9 72__nd__ Avenue Southwest. 1241._"

"Let's go, boys and girls!" Pike shouted, as everyone dropped what they were doing and got into their apparatus. The three vehicles from Station 7 screamed down the street, and arrived at the scene within minutes.

Chapel drove, and McCoy chewed on the inside of his cheek the whole way. Once before, only once, he'd had to treat someone he knew well, and he was hoping he wouldn't add to that number during this incident.

"I hope to God all we're gonna do is rehab," Chapel said.

"Me too."

Christine parked the rig well away from where any fire apparatus would need to be, and they tried, and failed, not to look at the flames and smoke pouring from the house.

Things were happening fast. Ladders went up to windows. Hoses were stretched to the front door, which Spock quickly popped open with some tool McCoy couldn't quite see. Gaila and Chekov went straight in with a hose, and were followed quickly by a team from the second engine, which arrived shortly after Station 7's crews.

Sulu extended the ladder truck's huge aerial ladder to send Jim and Jablonski up to the roof. McCoy was surprised to see Jablonski—who he tried very hard not to call or even _think_ of as Cupcake—take a shorter ladder off the long aerial ladder, and hang it over the peak of the roof with hooks. Another roof ladder went about six feet away from the first. McCoy bit his fingernails as Jim stepped out onto the roof ladder, climbed up to near the peak of the roof started a chainsaw, and started cutting a hole in the roof. When the hole was cut, Jablonski took a long pole with a hook at the end and got ready to do … something … with it.

"Jesus," he said. "On the roof, with a running chainsaw. I can't look."

"But you also can't _not_ look, apparently," Christine said.

McCoy watched as Jablonski took the long pole and used it to pull shingles away from the roof, and then shove what must have been the plywood sheathing down through the hole Jim had cut. Dark gray smoke poured out, instantly obscuring both men from view.

"Holy crap," Leonard muttered. "Crazy bastards."

Before the smaller of the two men reappeared from the smoke, flames also started shooting through the new hole in the roof. Jablonski was firmly on the aerial ladder by then, and Leonard literally held his breath until Jim appeared at the tip of the aerial ladder and started making his way down. Jim had only been on the roof for six or seven minutes, at the outside, but Leonard felt like he'd been holding his breath for hours.

Leonard had just caught his breath when Kirk and Jablonski reported to Spock, who had them pick up new air bottles, and then sent them into the structure with a third attack line, via a ladder to a second-floor window. Spock, meanwhile, was setting up a huge fan a couple yards from the front door, blowing air into the house. Gaila and Chekov came out shortly afterwards, for just long enough to swap in full air bottles, and went straight back in again. Kirk and Jablonski were only inside for just over twelve minutes—they were both big men, and breathed down their bottles quickly. At the end of their second bottles, Pike pointed them both over to the aid station that McCoy and Chapel had set up next to the ambulance.

The two men stripped off their air packs and coats on the way over. Both men were flushed and soot streaked, and drenched in sweat. Chapel handed them each a quart bottle of water and got a temperature reading from each of them as McCoy took vitals.

"Jim, finish your water, and you're fine to go back. Crazy, but fine. Carl, your temp and BP are both up, your pulse is 130, and you're still breathing hard. Five minutes, and we'll check again," McCoy said. "Might as well gear all the way down; you'll cool off faster."

Jablonski glared at McCoy, but knew better than to argue. Jim chugged down the last of his water and swiped his forearm across his sooty face.

"Chill out, Cupcake. See ya, Bones," Jim said, as he donned his coat and returned to the staging area for a new assignment. McCoy watched as Jim geared back up. Pike said something to Jim and Spock, and gestured to the building, and Jim and Spock entered the building through the second-floor window.

McCoy watched as the color of the smoke changed from dark black to gray. He checked Jablonski over once more, and released him from rehab. Jablonski reported to Pike, and started unloading various tools from the ladder truck. The smoke continued to lighten, then disappeared entirely. All three pairs inside the building came out, briefly. Some went in with different tools; Jablonski went in with a large fan, which then appeared in an upstairs window, apparently blowing leftover smoke out of the house.

"What's going on now?" McCoy asked Chapel. "Any idea?"

She nodded. "Fire's out. They have to make sure there are no hot spots that might flare up, which means opening up ceilings and walls and such. We'll remain on standby until they finish all of the dangerous stuff."

McCoy's insides twisted as he watched Spock and Kirk come back down the ladder from the second floor. Spock carried the nozzle of the drained hoseline, and Kirk was carrying some sort of bundle.

"Unbelievable," he muttered. "Hopping down that ladder like he's a bird. Sure hope he knows he can't fly."

To McCoy's surprise, Jim headed back towards the ambulance, peeling off his helmet and facepiece as he went. He was still carrying the bundle, which seemed to be moving feebly.

"Bones! I know you're a paramedic, not a veterinarian, but can you do anything for this little guy?" Jim asked, holding the bundle out to McCoy.

McCoy took the bundle and set it down on the stretcher. "Well, let's see what we have, here," he said, partly to the animal, and partly to himself.

It was a small dog—probably a terrier of some sort, and it was panting and occasionally making a barking sound that could have been a cough.

"He was hiding under a bed upstairs," Jim said. "The smoke wasn't too bad in that room, but he was probably in there the whole time. Poor thing is terrified, too."

"So I see. Well, buddy, looks like maybe you have some canine smoke inhalation." The dog tried feebly to burrow under the sheet on the stretcher. "Looks like you want to hide, too. I think we can work with that," Leonard said. "Chris, can you grab me another sheet, and, hm, what might we have that might be not so permeable … a sheet of plastic, or something?"

Kirk snapped his fingers. "I could get you a piece of plastic salvage cover—just thick plastic sheeting. How much do you need?"

"Oh, four by four or so would probably do it. Feet, that is."

"You got it. BRB."

McCoy rolled his eyes. He'd learned to tolerate text messaging abbreviations when they were actually part of a text message. But in actual speech? Not there yet.

Leonard patted the quivering dog under the sheet and spoke to it soothingly until Christine returned with another sheet. He made a sort of tent for the dog, who disappeared snout-first into the hideaway. McCoy attached a piece of plain tubing onto the oxygen cylinder, and snaked the tubing into the burrow. He set the oxygen for a low rate of flow, figuring the animal didn't breathe nearly as much volume as a human.

Kirk returned with a piece of plastic sheeting. "How's this, Bones?"

"Perfect. Lucky the little guy likes to burrow." McCoy tucked the plastic around the bundle. "There. Home-made oxygen tent. That oughta keep the O2 in nicely. He does need to get to a vet, though."

Jim nodded. "I'll let Cap know. Kinda surprised the homeowners haven't shown up yet."

"I'll make sure he gets some water in the meantime," Leonard said.

Jim beamed at him, his shockingly blue eyes standing out starkly from his flushed, sooty face. "You're totally my hero."

Jim's radio crackled to life.

"Kirk, get your rear back on overhaul," Pike's voice said.

"Copy," Jim said into his lapel mike. "Can't say 'ass' on the radio," he said to Leonard, and winked.

Leonard rolled his eyes, watched Jim trudge back to the building, and sighed.

~!~!~!~

One of the homeowners, a woman in her mid-thirties, appeared as the firefighters were in the middle of their overhaul and salvage operation. McCoy watched, but couldn't hear, as she spoke frantically with Pike, who seemed to be doing a good job of soothing her. Her hands flew to her face, and she seemed to be sobbing, suddenly, but Pike turned her around gently and pointed her towards the ambulance.

The woman ran towards the rig, stumbling slightly. "Ike?" she called.

"We have your dog, ma'am," McCoy said. "He's just having a little oxygen. He should go to the vet, though, because it seemed like he was having a little trouble breathing."

"Ohmygod, ohmygod, I'll take him straight there! Thank you so much for saving him! He's my daughter's dog, and this fire is going to be hard enough for her without—well, thank you so much for getting him out."

"Ma'am, another fellow brought him out. Jim Kirk is his name—he's the one by the front door right now. I just gave him some oxygen and a little water."

"Well, thank you both. I'll take him straight to the vet."

McCoy and Chapel watched as she put her dog, who looked considerably healthier, into the car, and drove away.

"Looks like that dog was pretty important," Chapel said. "She seemed more worried about him than about the house."

"Well, taking care of him is something she can _do_," Leonard said. "She can't do anything about the house right now."

"That makes sense," Chapel said. Together, they stripped and wiped down the stretcher and put a clean sheet on it.

"So, you're Jim's hero," Christine said. "That could be both interesting and dangerous. But at the very least, you'll probably get a beer out of giving old Ike some nice oxygen."

McCoy scowled. "It's ridiculous, is what it is." But dangerous, too, he thought. Yep, could be very dangerous indeed.

Especially because, God help him, he liked it.

~!~!~!~

As Christine had predicted, Leonard found himself on the receiving end of a offer for a beer at the end of the shift. The beer, predictably, turned into beer and pizza, and more beer.

"That, my friend, is what it is all about!" Jim said, midway through his third slice of pizza.

"What is what all what's all about?" Leonard replied.

Jim snorted. "Aw, man! Pizza up my nose! You just said 'what' three times in a row!"

McCoy waited, arms crossed. "Well?"

"All right. Today's fire, right? _That's_ what it's all about, Bones! We saved a whole lot of that place today. They'll have to have a lot of work done, but they didn't lose their whole house. Don't get me wrong, it'll probably be just as much work to fix it up as it would be to knock it down and start fresh, which might be the smart thing to do, but lemme tell you—it means something to people not to hafta do that. Plus, you saved their little dog, Bones! And the mom who came to pick him up—yeah, I saw her all right—she was _hot_! And don't tell me you didn't notice."

He hadn't noticed. "I told her you got the dog out, so hopefully credit will go where it's due."

"You didn't _notice?_ C'mon, Bones! Women eat that stuff up! I mean, you were giving _oxygen_ to her _dog!_"

McCoy scowled. "Well, I guess maybe I didn't really look at her, all right?"

Jim frowned back at him suspiciously. "I know," he said, after a few moments. "I bet she looked just like Jocelyn."

Leonard couldn't help himself. He burst out laughing. "Jesus Christ, are you ever wrong! And that is absolutely all I'm saying."

"All right, all right!" Jim held his hands up defensively. "I'll change the subject. What are you gonna do to stay awake tonight?"

"No idea. Read, maybe. I also got some DVDs from the library. That's about it. Nothing exciting. I'm sure you've got interesting plans, though. Quite frankly, you look like you wouldn't have any trouble staying up all night if you wanted to, though."

"I kinda get hyped up after a good structure fire."

"A 'good' structure fire?"

"Aw, c'mon—you know what I mean. You might say you had a really good call if it was something interesting for you but horrible for the patient, right?"

"Yeah, okay. I guess that's actually even worse than saying 'a good fire.' Sorry."

"No worries. Anyhow—yeah. I'm hyped up. Winding down to get to sleep before the sun comes up will be more of a challenge than keeping myself awake all night. So hey—you wanna watch a movie at my place or something? You could go back to your place and get your movie, or whatever, or I also have a bunch of stuff. I don't even know what you like, actually."

"I was gonna watch this series called Firefly. Well, re-watch, actually."

"Hey, that's by the 'Buffy the Vampire Slayer' guy, right?"

"Yeah, though I refuse to watch anything with the word 'Buffy' in the title."

"Uh, it's supposed to be funny, Bones. Tongue-in-cheek."

"But still."

"I'd watch anything by the Buffy guy. You wanna get it, and watch at my place? Or your place? Not that I'm inviting myself over. It's just that my place is a good half hour away."

No way in hell was Leonard going to admit that he lived in his van, and watched his movies on his laptop.

"I don't mind driving."

~!~!~!~

Jim's place turned out to be a tiny house, just north of Riverside. He was making some microwave popcorn, after the two of them watched the first three episodes of Firefly.

"Well, I figured if it was by the Buffy guy, it'd be awesome, but Bones, this is _awesome_ awesome, not just _regular_ awesome."

"Thought you'd like it. And maybe, just maybe, you can convince me to watch the vampire show, but I'll have to stick my fingers in my ears every time I hear the name 'Buffy.' And the guy's name is Whedon. Joss Whedon. So quit callin' him 'the Buffy guy.'"

"Sure, Bones—whatever. You know how good I am at calling people by their actual names. And hey, that's your ex's nickname too, I just realized. You want another beer?"

"Why the hell not? We gotta stay up real late anyhow, right?"

"See, now that's the spirit. Not three hours ago you were saying how you're an old stick in the mud. I don't know who put _that_ idea in your head." Jim frowned at Leonard as he popped open a bottle of beer and handed it to him. "It was that ex of yours, wasn't it? Did Jocelyn somehow convince you that you were boring? 'Cause you're totally not."

Leonard sighed. "I think I pretty much convinced myself, actually. Or maybe Joss helped. I don't know. We hadn't been getting along great, but hadn't quite gotten to that phase of total scorn towards each other—or so I thought. But gettin' home that day and finding them … well. I guess that felt pretty scornful." He took a long pull of his beer. "And why the hell I'm tellin' you all this is beyond me."

"Because we're friends, Bones, and that's what friends do. Plus, I have a gift. My brother said I oughta be a CIA interrogator when I'm too old to be a fireman, because people always tell me shit they don't wanna say."

Leonard snorted. "He's absolutely right. Either that, or you should be a shrink."

They went back to the living room, put their feet up on the coffee table, and ate their popcorn while they watched another episode of Firefly.

"Another forty-five minutes well spent," Jim said. "And I'm starved for real food. How 'bout if I make some eggs and toast?"

"Sure, that'd be great. Instead of the breakfast I'll sleep through later."

Jim started some scrambled eggs, and threw four pieces of bread in the toaster. When the eggs were done, he put a lid on the skillet and cleared some piles off his dining table. Leonard noticed a book of crossword puzzles go by.

"Crosswords, huh?"

"Yep. I like words," Jim said.

"I'll have to beat you at Scrabble sometime, then."

"You wish."

"I don't have a real set, but I'll bring my laptop to the station next shift and we'll see who schools who," Leonard said.

Jim put two loaded plates on the table, along with the butter, and two glasses of orange juice. "I figure if we're having fake breakfast we might as well do it right. Dig in."

"Thanks," McCoy said.

Jim ate slowly, in contrast to the way he ate at the station. McCoy had also gotten into the habit, at work, of shoveling food in as fast as he could, since he could be torn away from it at any second.

McCoy noticed that Jim was squinting at him slightly.

"What?" Leonard said, trying not to bark. Or scowl.

"Hmm. I was just thinking about something."

"Okay, I'll bite. What were you thinking about?"

"A word. Like I said—I like words."

"Here I am, biting again. What word were you thinking about?"

"Epicene," Jim said, the word rolling off his tongue like a marble.

McCoy understood why people in trouble inherently trusted Jim; everything he said, when he was being serious, was just so smooth and easy, that it seemed impossible that he shouldn't be trusted. He had no idea what the kid was talking about this time, though.

"Epicene?"

"It's an under-appreciated word," Jim said.

"Well, I for one can't appreciate a word if I have no idea what the hell it means," McCoy said. He sipped his orange juice, and wondered what he was getting himself into this time.

"It can mean two really different things, actually. It can be used to mean 'having characteristics of both sexes,' or it can also mean 'not having characteristics of either sex.' Personally I like the first one better."

"You would," McCoy said dryly. "And this is going where, exactly?"

"Names. Epicene names—those are the ones that can be for a male or a female. Pat. Chris—like we've got two of at the station, one boy and one girl. There's a lot of new names like that these days too. Jordan, Taylor, Morgan, and the oh-so-hateable MacKenzie. Then there's the classics. A lot of those are used for men anymore only in the South. Ashleigh. Evelyn. Meredith. Hilary." Jim paused, and looked Leonard in the eye. "Jocelyn."

McCoy stared into his glass. He'd expected people would start figuring it out eventually. But not so soon, and not by talking about television shows, for Christ's sake. And he sure as hell didn't think Jim Kirk would be the first to know.

"I guess maybe you might beat me at Scrabble after all," Leonard said quietly. "With all those words you know."

**TBC**


	6. Incipient

**Chapter 6: Incipient **

McCoy just sat there at the table, looking at a clump of egg on his plate. "I should probably just go," he said.

"What? Bones, no. Jesus—you know I'm not gonna judge you. Me, of all people."

McCoy kept his eyes away from the blue ones that he knew were blazing at him from across the table. He just couldn't risk looking.

"On a rational level, I know that," he said finally.

"But … how about on an irrational level?"

Leonard didn't say anything. Elbows on the table, just like his mother had taught him never to do, he ground the heels of his hands into his eye sockets, so hard he saw sparkles.

"You wouldn't understand."

"Now why the fuck would you think that?"

"You're so … confident. So in control. Hell, everyone at the station probably knows you're bi and doesn't give a fuck."

"Except Cupcake. But I don't give a shit what he thinks."

Leonard took his hands away from his face, finally. "See? Now that's _exactly_ what I'm talking about."

Jim had the good grace to at least look confused. "Huh?"

McCoy looked away. "There's nothing you're ashamed of."

"Well, I wouldn't go that far. I mean, I've screwed up plenty of times in my life. Done some things I'm not proud of."

"That's not what I mean."

Jim paused, not understanding. "All right, then. What do you mean? I don't understand, Bones. And I want to."

"Why?" Leonard looked at Jim, now, hazel eyes taking the full onslaught of the bright blue beams.

Jim leaned back in his chair, shocked at the sudden intensity of McCoy's gaze. "What?"

"I said, why? Why do you want to understand?"

"Because," Jim said slowly, "I'm trying. I don't know how to do this. So I'm just trying my best."

"Jesus," McCoy said. "Words, words, words. We're both saying all these words, and we're not getting anywhere. Now_ I _don't understand. So I'm gonna try this. I'm gonna try to help you understand what I meant just now, and then you can use your best Scrabble words to explain what it is _you_ don't think you know how to do. So here goes. _Shame_, Jim. I grew up with it. It was my best friend—sometimes my only friend—and my worst enemy. I was ashamed of being a white man in a part of the world where you couldn't do well if you were anything else. I was ashamed of being descended from people who believed they could own other human beings. And once I was old enough to understand, I was ashamed by the fact that I was gay. Hell, I didn't even know there _was_ any such thing until I was fourteen—that's how repressed I grew up. So I was ashamed when I fell in love with another man, and ashamed when my parents pretended we were housemates, and ashamed when I found my partner in bed with a woman. My only friends at my last place of work were women. And a third of the guys wouldn't work with me as their partner. I'd get nasty notes in my locker. Things like, why should I bother to wear gloves, since it's not like I could get HIV twice. Which I don't have, by the way. Women's panties wrapped up for me under the company Christmas tree. A pink triangle sewn to my uniform sleeve one day. So I'm not talking about things I did that I don't feel proud of, Jim. I'm talking about being taught, one way or another, for all thirty-two years of my life, that who I am is _wrong_." McCoy finished his orange juice in one gulp, and slammed the glass down on the table like it was an empty shot glass. He crossed his arms over his chest and glared across the table at Jim. "Your turn."

"Shit, Bones. Just—fuck." Jim rubbed his hand over his face, his eyes.

"Ante up, Jim, or the game's over. Not that I even know what the hell it is we're playin' at. But still."

"All right—okay, I'm trying. Okay. It's like this." Jim took a deep breath, and blew it out. "I don't have friends. I don't think. I've got … acquaintances. Co-workers. Fuck-buddies. Pals. I've been accused of being a whore, even though I've never taken—or given, just in case you're wondering—money for sex. I've been accused of being a manipulator, more than once—and that's probably true. I know how to get what I want. And sometimes it's sex. Women like to get fucked by me. Men like to fuck me, and sometimes get fucked by me. But I'm twenty-seven years old, and I don't have a single person—and never have—who I can call a friend. And _that's_ what I suck at. _That's_ what I don't know how to do. And that's why I'm trying to understand. Trying to understand _you_."

Leonard's glare softened. "Good ante. See? Now you're in the game. My turn. Why me? I didn't get why you latched right onto me, like a remora onto a shark, but then when you told me about my delightful predecessor, I got it, and I thought, okay, that's it, the kid will go away now that he knows I'm not gonna kill him, actively or passively. But you didn't go away. Why not? Your turn."

"Because of the way …" Jim cleared his throat. He picked up his orange juice glass, and put it down again quickly, as if shocked that it were empty.

Leonard silently stood up, and took Jim's glass into the kitchen, bringing it back filled with orange juice. He set it gently in front of Jim, and sat back down again.

Jim picked up his juice, and drained half the glass. He licked his lips, and looked away. "Because of the way you answered me, when I told you more than I meant to. It was almost like …"

McCoy let the pause go on as long as he thought he could. "Like what, Jim?" he prodded gently.

"It was almost like you cared," Jim half whispered.

_Almost_. Leonard died a little bit when he heard how Jim said that word.

"Of _course_ I care, Jim. Of course I do," Leonard said softly.

Jim's eyes blazed back across at him. "Why?"

The question almost seemed like a challenge. Probably _was_ a challenge. But Leonard knew, somehow, that honesty was the best policy.

"At first? Because you were another human being. And that's what I do. I take care of other human beings, on the worst day of their life. But later? Because, Jim, and I don't know if you understand this, but we're friends. We _are_. I don't know enough to know whether it's totally true that you've never had a friend before, but we're friends. And God help me, but for some reason I don't entirely understand, I trust you. If it'd been anyone else who figured out just now that Jocelyn is a man, I would've run screaming. And they probably woulda let me. But I didn't run."

"And I wouldn't have let you, anyhow."

"I know," McCoy said. "Because we're friends."

Jim chewed on a fingernail, and it was all Leonard could do to manage not to reach across the table and stop him.

"I'm gonna fuck it up," Jim said. "I always do."

"Thanks for the warning," Leonard said dryly. "I'll be on the lookout, and I'll tell you to stop whatever the hell it is you're doing to sabotage yourself. How 'bout that?"

"Okay. And … I'll try to let you."

McCoy nodded. "Fair enough."

Jim looked at the clock on his microwave. "It's one a.m. You up for one more episode?"

Leonard grinned. "Sure, Jim. Then I should get home." _To my parking space at Walmart_.

Jim frowned. "Where do you live, anyhow?"

"Uh, not too far from the station."

"That's what you said last time I asked."

"So maybe it's true."

"Shit, Bones," Jim said. "You're worse than me. Aren't we supposed to be friends? Weren't you just telling me how you'd be on the lookout for self-sabotage? I've done it enough times that I know it when I see it. So spill it, Bones."

McCoy nodded, with a tiny movement of his head. "All right. I'm living in my van. Just for now," he said, raising his hands defensively, as Jim started to protest. "I had nothing when I left Savannah—nothing. So I'm just sleeping in the van until I've saved up enough for first and last month's rent and a security deposit, which is what everyone seems to want. And don't feel sorry for me. I don't really mind. Besides, by the next payday I'll be there." Leonard tried to convince himself that any of what he'd said was actually true. Well, living in the van was definitely true. And he sure hoped he'd have enough saved by the first of the next month.

Jim frowned. "I know some people," he said.

"I'm sure you do," McCoy said.

"No, I mean, I know some people who are renting places, and who would take my word for it that you're a responsible guy, and might not ask for that much up front. In fact, I know someone who's got a house that I think she's trying to sell, if you're looking to buy. She might do a rent-to-own, if that would interest you."

"It might," McCoy said slowly. "Though I can't say I'm necessarily ready to settle down in Iowa yet. To be honest, I wasn't running _to_ anywhere. I was running _away_ from Georgia. And I'm so fucked up right now that I don't know what I'm doing. But yeah—if you have contacts who have places to rent—that'd be great. Thanks, Jim."

"You're welcome. What are friends for, right?"

"Right. Now—let's get back to the world of the Browncoats."

~!~!~!~

"That was fairly disturbing," Jim said, at the end of the episode.

"Well—it's definitely a dystopia."

"Ooooh, good word! Eight letters, too, so with the right open letter you could play it in Scrabble."

"I'll be sure to keep that in mind when I'm busting your ass tomorrow. But for now, I gotta go."

Jim frowned at him. "Go where? Just … park your van somewhere else?"

"Uh …" Leonard didn't have a good answer.

"Leave it right where it is. Use my bathroom. Eat my food. Mi casa es tu casa. Except I don't have a spare bed. The couch isn't bad, though."

McCoy sat there, not sure what to make of the offer.

"Please say yes, Bones. I hate thinking of you in a parking lot. Please?"

"Thanks, Jim. I will. But I'll sleep in the van, if that's okay, because I've actually got a pretty comfortable mattress in there, and—"

"Just bring it inside," Jim said. "The spare room is just an office—well, without any officey things in it. Okay, it's pretty much just … an empty room. You can stay as long as you want." Jim looked at him almost imploringly, and there was no way Leonard was going to say no.

"Thanks. But you have to let me, I don't know, buy groceries or something. And it's only for a little while—just until I get my own place."

"Great! This is great, Bones! I never had a roommate before. Well, except for Sam, when we were kids, but that doesn't count."

"I should warn you, I'm cranky in the morning."

"Well, duh, Bones. I don't care. You're cranky in the afternoon and evening, too. And at night."

McCoy cracked a small, crooked half-smile. "Looks like you've got my number. But seriously—thanks. I'll try not to be too much of an ass."

"Need any help moving anything?"

"Nah. I'll just fold up the mattress and throw it on the floor. Grab a change of clothes. That sort of thing."

"Okay."

Jim puttered around in the kitchen as McCoy took three trips to and from the van to bring various things into the spare room. When everything he needed for the night and the morning was in Kirk's spare room, Leonard went into the kitchen and picked up a dishtowel, and started drying the dishes Jim was washing.

"I think I'm gonna turn in after this," Jim said, yawning mightily.

"Looks like you've come down from the fire, all right." McCoy shook his head. "I just couldn't believe what I was seeing this afternoon."

"Huh? What did you see?"

"You, up on the roof, with a running chainsaw, and … then flames shooting out practically right where you were standing."

"Oh. Well, that's rooftop operations for ya. If my eyebrows had been showing, they'd've gotten a little singed, but that's why you cover up but good. Does get pretty toasty, though."

McCoy shuddered. "Doesn't _anything_ scare you?"

Jim let the water out of the sink. "Yeah," he said quietly.

Leonard looked at Jim, who suddenly looked like he was going to fall over with exhaustion. He decided to drop the discussion. It would keep.

"All right. Listen, you wash up first. You look completely wiped out," Leonard said.

"Yeah. Okay. I guess I am pretty beat."

Beaten, even, McCoy thought. Maybe even defeated. The kid seemed to go from sky-high to grave-low, and up again, then down, so quickly it was impossible to follow. He watched Jim walk down the hall to the bathroom, and then retreated to the spare room which was indeed, as Jim had warned, quite spare. There was nothing in it except a rickety wooden chair and a laptop stand. But it was clean, and quiet, and legal, and McCoy would sleep knowing no cops would come knocking on his windows.

Leonard made up his mattress, which had gotten discombobulated in its move from the van, and, suddenly feeling just as tired as Jim looked, put on pajama pants and a t-shirt and waited for his turn in the bathroom. After a short time, he heard flushing, and water running, and then Jim appeared in the hallway.

"You settled?" Jim asked, leaning against the open doorway of the spare room.

"Yeah. Thanks a lot, Jim." Leonard stood up from where he'd been sitting on the mattress on the floor.

"You're welcome. I'm glad you decided to stay."

Leonard stood there in the middle of the room, waiting for Jim to move out of the doorway so he could go have his turn to wash up in the bathroom.

Jim didn't move. He stood there, looking at Leonard, but not saying anything.

"Bones," Jim said, "If you felt like it, I would totally …"

McCoy waited for Jim to continue, but he didn't. "Totally what, Jim?"

Jim stood there for another few seconds, and then shook his head. "Sabotage," he muttered. "Forget it. Sleep well."

**TBC**

A/N: An incipient stage fire has just started burning. The fuel load of the structure isn't burning yet, and the fire is easily controlled by a fire extinguisher. Think a stove fire, or a fire in a wastebasket.


	7. Growth

**Chapter 7: Growth Stage**

_Two weeks later_

"Thank you very much, Mrs. Petty," McCoy said, pocketing the keys and shaking the hand of his new landlady. "I really appreciate your flexibility. It's been tough getting settled in around here, since everyone wants three months' rent up front, and since I couldn't provide landlord references."

"Oh, any friend of the Kirks' is a friend of mine," replied Mrs. Petty. "And having a real live paramedic living next door will be wonderful. Plus, the fact that you're willing and able to help out with fixing things around here is a huge plus. I'm not getting any younger. And you absolutely must let me take off from your rent when you work on this place or my place."

"All right," Leonard said. "I will. And I'll let you know as soon as I can whether I'm interested in buying the place."

"I certainly hope you'll want to, but I understand you're a bit at loose ends right now. So there's no hurry at all."

"Thanks for understanding."

"And do feel free to put any of the furniture you hate right into the basement."

"I'll do that. But to be honest, I've got nothing, and I'm not picky, so I think it'll all pretty much stay right where it is." Leonard checked his watch. "I'm sorry, but I really need to get going. My shift starts in half an hour."

"Well, do say hello to young Jim for me. I was so proud of him when he graduated from the fire academy. He had a rough start, from the first day of his life, but it looks like he's finally made good for himself."

"Yes, ma'am," Leonard agreed, not having the faintest idea what she was talking about.

~!~!~!~

"You do it?" Jim asked, the moment Leonard set foot in the station.

McCoy held up the key as he reached for a towel in his locker. Rain had begun to fall just as he drove from his new house to the station, and he got drenched between the parking lot and the door of the station. "Yup. Nice lady, perfectly fine place. Moving in tomorrow, right after our shift is over. Thanks a lot for the recommendation to Mrs. Petty."

"No problem, Bones."

"And thanks for putting me up the last couple weeks. I'll be out of your hair tomorrow afternoon." Leonard finished toweling off, and hung his towel in his locker.

"Yeah." Jim closed his locker door quietly. "I guess so."

Leonard pulled his wet shirt over his head, and turned to say something else to Jim, but he was gone. No matter; they could continue their conversation after the morning line-up.

Pike had nothing of interest to report during the start-of-shift lineup. Sulu and Scotty started a movie up on the DVD player, Pike and Spock retreated to the office to go over some things that Leonard had no clue about, Cupcake—Leonard mentally smacked himself for even _thinking_ that nickname, but it just kept happening, so maybe he just wouldn't fight it anymore—coached Chekov in some weightlifting, and Christine and Gaila looked at some catalog together. Jim was—

Leonard frowned as he realized Jim was nowhere in sight. Leonard thought he must be in the corner of one of the couches, blocked from view by the high counter that was behind the sofa that formed the bottom of the U-shaped arrangement of furniture, but when he peered around the counter to look, only Scotty and Sulu were watching the movie.

"Huh," Leonard said to himself. Usually Jim seemed to be everywhere at once, almost taking up the whole room with his energy, but this evening he seemed to be … nowhere. He stopped at the table where Christine and Gaila were looking at their catalog.

"You ladies seen Jim around?"

Gaila rolled her eyes. "I guess you haven't been here for any of his weird days yet."

"Weird days?" Leonard asked.

"Yeah, there are days when he just … retreats, I guess. A couple times a year. It's kind of a relief, actually. Like a mini-vacation for the rest of us, even though we're still working."

"Come on, I just stayed at his house for two weeks. He's not _that_ bad."

Christine shook her head. "I don't know how you could stand it, personally. That guy just never seems to be still—not for half a second—and you're just so … calm. And I don't know how anyone could put up with his … uh …"

McCoy stood there, hands on hips, waiting for Chapel to finish.

"His _what_, Chris?"

"Well, didn't he, like … bring people home all the time? I mean, that'd totally drive me up the wall. I had a housemate once who was a … prolific dater, and—"

"Never mind," Leonard interrupted, and stalked out of the room, scowling. It wasn't their business in the slightest, but Jim hadn't brought home a single date the entire time Leonard had been his guest. But it was clear from Christine's remarks that people at the station assumed, for whatever reason, that Jim was highly promiscuous. Sure, it had only been a couple weeks, and maybe Jim had been on his best behavior since he had a guest. But they'd been out a couple times, on days off or after a day shift, and Leonard had never felt in the slightest like he was a third wheel, or worse, a wingman.

The apparatus bay was quiet, which meant it was unlikely that Jim was there, so Leonard proceeded to the bunk room, where people could try to get some sleep if they wanted to during a night shift. Hardly anybody bothered, and Leonard had never seen Jim go near any of the beds.

He decided to just poke his head into the locker room, though it wasn't really proper to chase someone down in there.

"Jim?"

Nothing.

"Huh."

He wouldn't be outside on a day like this—Leonard could see through the transparent portions of the bay's overhead doors that it was still pouring. So where the hell was the kid? It was like he was hiding, or something. Leonard peered cautiously into the cabs of the two huge tennis-ball-yellow fire trucks, but nobody was in there. He stuck his head back into the ready room, but still no Jim. Back to the apparatus bay, then.

"Jim?" Leonard inquired cautiously, not wanting to sound strange in the probably empty bay.

"Yeah, Bones."

Leonard jumped, and cast his eyes around the bay again.

"Up here."

Leonard looked up, where he heard the voice coming from, and saw Jim sitting on the tip of the aerial ladder that was part of the ladder truck. He shuddered, even though in its resting position, the ladder was only about ten feet off the ground. Jim was sitting with his knees drawn up to his chest, hands around his lower legs, and making no move to come down.

"You okay?"

McCoy could see Jim's blank expression. "I don't know," he said finally, in a voice that was as flat as the fields of corn that surrounded Leonard's new home in the Midwestern plains.

"All right. How do I get up there?"

"You don't want to come up here."

Spoken differently, Leonard realized, those same words could sound threatening. But in Jim's flat voice, they just sounded … dead.

Leonard walked around to the back of the truck, where he recalled seeing stairs. He climbed the stairs to the platform at the back end of the ladder, and unhesitatingly walked out onto the completely horizontal ladder. He held onto the sides, and looked at his feet the whole time—no problem, since all he saw underneath his feet was the top of the truck. No problem, at least, until he got to the part of the ladder that extended out in front of the cab, over a ten-foot drop. Leonard took a deep breath, stayed low, held on, and crossed the single yard between himself and Jim. He sat on a diamond-plated rectangle, still holding on tightly to the sides of the ladder.

"What's going on, Jim?" he asked softly.

"I didn't think you'd come up here," Jim replied, his voice still oddly expressionless.

"Well, what's a few feet of elevation between friends?"

Jim finally looked at Leonard. "We're friends. We really are, aren't we?"

McCoy nodded. "Yeah, Jim; we really are."

Jim looked away again.

"So I can tell you something—something that might kind of be weird—and it's okay?"

"You sure can."

Jim nodded, as if he'd made a decision. "All right. Tomorrow's my birthday."

Of all the things Jim could've said just then, that was not what Leonard had been expecting. He had his head on straight enough, though, that he realized that "Happy Birthday" was the wrong response. So he waited.

"And I really, really hate my birthday," Jim said. "Especially this one."

Leonard thought about what he really knew about Jim, which was precious little. It would be Jim's twenty-eighth birthday, so not one where he'd be likely to be feeling particularly ancient. So he risked a question.

"Why's that?"

Jim stared down to the floor of the apparatus bay as he answered. "My father died the day I was born. And this year, on my birthday, I've officially lived longer than he did."

_Yep_, Leonard thought, _that'd do it all right_.

Just as Leonard was about to open his mouth to continue, Jim spoke again.

"He was driving my mother to the hospital, because I was apparently going to be born any minute. A drunk driver plowed into the car. From what I hear, my dad was killed instantly. I guess, having seen what I've seen over the last few years, that's what I want to believe, too. My mom had some injuries, but the real problem was that she was pinned in the car. In such a way that … well, if I hadn't had such a big head, she and I would both be dead. But I guess my big head slowed things down enough that they got her out just in time for me to be born. On a backboard, by the side of the road. Next to the crumpled up car that contained what was left of my father. Who was twenty-seven."

_Jesus_. _Well, that sure counts as a rough start._ "I'm sorry, Jim."

"And here I am, older than he was when he died, and boy, have I ever not lived up to his memory. And nobody ever, ever lets me forget that, either."

_Especially you, I bet_, Leonard thought. But this was clearly not the time to try to talk Jim out of the idea that he was somehow a failure, despite—or perhaps because of—the 'Fragile! Handle With Care!' label visible smack dab in the middle of Jim's forehead.

"How can I help?" Leonard said instead.

Jim looked up again. "You know, nobody's _ever_ asked me that. Everyone always just tries to make it not seem so bad. But it's _my_ fucking life. Not theirs."

"That's true."

"So … how can you help? I don't know. Just … don't try to talk me out of my funk. Don't try to make me feel better, because I don't want to. Not right now. And don't bake me a fucking cake, or send me a card. And maybe …" Jim looked back down at the polished cement floor again.

"Maybe what, Jim?"

"Maybe, if you could wait one day—just one; I know you want your own place and everything—but if you could wait one more day before you take off …"

"Of course I can," Leonard said. "What's one more day between friends?"

Jim's sapphire eyes met Leonard's hazel ones. "More than you can imagine," Jim said.

"All right, then," Leonard said. "One more day, no fucking cake, no goddamned card, no freakin' party, and no—"

The station's tones sounded, and were followed by the much more mellifluous tones of the voice of Spock's wife, Nyota.

"_Engine 1, Ladder 1, respond to 2274 East Hollow Road, for a car fire in a garage. 2-2-7-4 East Hollow Road, for a car fire in a garage. 1816._"

"Figures," Leonard said.

McCoy hurried across the ladder as fast as he could, and Jim plodded patiently along behind him. Leonard nearly had a heart attack when the diesel engine of the ladder truck started up while they were just coming down the stairs from the operator's platform atop the rear of the truck. He moved to get away from the truck, but was stopped by a hand gripping his upper arm.

Jim didn't say anything—he would've had to shout over the engine noise—but he didn't need to. Leonard quickly clasped the wrist of the hand that was gripping his arm, and then they both let go. Jim silently stepped into his boots and bunker pants, grabbed his coat and helmet, and boarded the truck.

McCoy returned to the ready room, to find Chapel still sitting at the table.

"Um," she said. "Len?"

"Yeah?" Leonard said mildly.

"Uh, I wanted to apologize for maybe … badmouthing Kirk. I know you guys are friends. I just … don't get it. So I kind of forgot."

"I guess so," Leonard said. "But look: he's having a really bad day, for a really good reason. So, I don't know. It couldn't hurt to be nice to him, or if you wouldn't normally interact with him much, which I guess you wouldn't, actually, just …"

"I know. Don't be mean. I'll try. I guess I could be a little nicer to him in general."

"I didn't mean to imply that—"

"No, I know you didn't. I'm … I guess I've just been really hard to get along with since my fiancé got deployed."

_Ah. The mystery of the engagement ring_, Leonard thought.

"I didn't know about that," he said. "I noticed the ring, but … I didn't know the rest."

"That's because I didn't tell you," Christine said dryly. "Just like you didn't tell me you ran away from Georgia after a bad divorce or something."

_Or something_, Leonard agreed silently.

"But anyhow—yeah. Roger's a surgeon; he was in the National Guard, and guess what? One weekend a month and two weeks in the summer turned into deployment. He can email every so often, but we only get to talk like once every ten days. So that's why I'm such a bitch most of the time."

"To me, you just seem like you're stressed out sometimes." _Or ninety percent of every single shift, is more like it_. "Besides, I'm such a cranky old bastard it seems only fair."

"I think, actually," Christine said slowly, "that I really like working with you."

"We're a good team," Leonard said.

"The guy I worked with before you—Neil Selig—he, uh, wasn't so easy to get along with. I didn't really understand it. He never seemed to be in a bad mood, or grumpy—"

"Like yours truly," McCoy said.

"You said it, not me," Christine said. "But Selig was … I don't know. I sometimes got the feeling that he didn't really give a shit about most of his patients. Not in the normal way—but like he really couldn't have cared less if some of them lived or died. I mean, I never saw him … I don't know … do anything to people, or anything, but—I can't quite put my finger on it. He was just kind of … menacing. And we're supposed to be caring."

"We are," Leonard agreed. "I heard he's history anyhow, though, right? Jim told me his card got pulled."

"Yeah. But there's still a court case pending, so I'm not allowed to talk about it."

"I would imagine not," McCoy said.

The station's tones sounded again, and Spock's wife again announced a call.

"_Ambulance 2, respond to 2157 180__th__ Street for a 26-year-old male with an allergic reaction, epi-pen self administered but condition worsening, 2-Delta-1 response. That's 2157 180__th__ Street, 26-year-old male with an allergic reaction, epi-pen self administered but condition worsening, 2-Delta-1. 1822._"

Chris and Leonard took off for their destination, and arrived to find their patient seated inside the open front door, hands on knees and neck craned out in the classic position of respiratory distress. He was pale and sweaty, and his eyes were flashing back and forth in apparent agitation. His ankles were covered with angry welts, and the raised flush of hives was visible creeping through the v-neck of his t-shirt, up his neck.

Christine immediately set up the oxygen and placed a mask over the man's nose and mouth, and then helped the man to the stretcher, which was right in front of him. She began taking an initial set of vitals while Leonard got more details. Their patient had already written them a note, which Leonard read aloud.

"Several bee stings, both lower legs, at about 6:05 pm, immediate hives and airway swelling, one epi-pen administered shortly afterwards?"

The man nodded.

"Has this happened before?" Leonard already knew the answer, because (a), the man had an epi-pen, and had used it, and (b) he wrote down all the pertinent information before he started having worse difficulty breathing.

The man nodded again.

"Okay. I'm going to hit you with some more epinephrine and some benadryl, and we'll get you into the hospital pronto, all right?"

Another nod.

"Did you take any benadryl already?"

The man shook his head.

_Why the hell not?_ Leonard wanted to shout at him. But he didn't.

Christine announced the vitals. "Pulse 136 and thready, respirations 28, with stridor and bilateral wheezes, BP 104/78."

Leonard would've liked to have heard a higher BP reading, given that the man had already had a dose of epinephrine. He quickly prepped the man's arm for an IV, and pushed epinephrine and then benadryl.

"Let's roll, Chris."

They pushed the gurney to the ambulance and loaded their patient up. Leonard reported in to medical control. The doctor on the other end of the radio gave advance approval for McCoy to sedate the patient and insert an endotracheal tube should his airway condition worsen. While he didn't worsen, which was a surprise to McCoy, because frankly he'd been expecting for this guy to crash, he didn't get any better, either. Luckily for their patient, the drive to the hospital, with lights and sirens, took only twelve minutes.

Leonard handed the patient off to the ER nurses, along with a copy of the cheat-sheet he used to record basic data before completing his real report later on the computer. Back at the station, he had just started his report on the bee-sting patient when they were summoned again, this time for a mental health transport.

"Oh, goody," Leonard said.

"At least it's a voluntary transport. And you be quiet—you get to sit up in the front and drive, while I'm in the back with a patient who could go postal on me any second."

The transport turned out to be routine—a fifty-year-old woman who was feeling suicidal. She denied feeling like she was going to harm anyone else, but still, it was never entirely comfortable transporting a patient who had declared themselves to be mentally unstable.

The pouring rain had stopped, and by the time they returned to the station just after nine, the evening was clear and cooler than it had been. Both fire apparatus were also parked in the bay. Leonard peered quickly up at the tip of the aerial ladder, but Jim hadn't perched himself there again. Leonard completed his paperwork on one computer, while Christine did hers on the other. Everyone else had gotten back to the activities they'd started earlier in the shift, with the exception of Spock and Pike, who were now engaged in a chess game at the large table.

Leonard closed down the electronic records system, and cast a glance around the room for Jim. He wasn't expecting to find him, and didn't get any surprises on that front. He decided he didn't really care whether or not Jim wanted to be found, and started looking. He looked everywhere he could think of in the apparatus bay, including scanning all of the metal beams that held up the high roof. He looked under the doors of all the stalls in the men's room. He decided he'd leave the ladies' room for last—no need to incur the wrath of Gaila or Christine if he got caught. Besides, hiding in the women's locker room would be something Jim might do if he was in a _good_ mood, not a _bad_ one.

McCoy stuck his head in the dorm room lined with single beds. It was completely dark, and it wasn't possible to see past the brick dividers that separated the sleeping areas into cubicles without walking down the aisle. Leonard took his pen light out of its pocket on his pants, and walked down the aisle of the room.

He heard the voice before he even got to the last cubicle.

"Go away, Bones."

_Uh huh. Like that was gonna happen._

Leonard put his pen light away, and let his eyes adjust to the near total darkness for a moment. When he could see the brick cubicle dividers, he proceeded to the end of the row, and found a dark shape sitting on an unmade bed, leaning into the corner formed by the divider and the wall.

It was shocking to Leonard how the brilliant golden star he'd found himself somehow orbiting—or perhaps they were orbiting each other; he wasn't really sure—had burned up, burned down, burned out, turned itself into a brown dwarf. Or even a black hole—but McCoy would reserve judgment on that last until he saw if anything he did had an effect, or if everything just got sucked down, never to be heard from again.

He knew that by approaching, he risked being pulled in past the event horizon, if his star had indeed become a black hole, but he didn't give a shit. He sat down on the bed, next to Jim, and just … sat there. Close enough to feel the heat radiating off Jim's body, but far enough that they weren't actually touching. He didn't know what he was doing, and didn't have a plan. Minutes passed. And even though Leonard had never seen Jim be silent for such a long period of time, the silence didn't seem wrong on this occasion.

It didn't seem wrong when Jim broke the silence either.

"I don't know what to do, Bones. I just … I feel like I'm supposed to have some Big Plan, but I don't."

"Big Plans," Leonard said, capitalizing the words with his voice just as Jim had, "are overrated, in my opinion. They go wrong, and then you feel worse off than if you didn't have a plan to start with. And I'm not tryin' to make you feel better, 'cause I said I wouldn't. But that's my experience with plans."

"And I hate this day."

"It's a pretty hateable day."

Another few minutes of silence went by.

"I don't know what to do."

"How 'bout if we just sit here awhile, then. Till Spock's wife tells us what to do."

"Okay."

They sat there, silently, for fifteen more minutes.

And when Jim leaned his head down onto Leonard's shoulder, and Leonard slipped his arm behind Jim's neck and stroked his hair, slowly and gently, it wasn't weird at all.

Ten minutes after that, the engine and ladder were toned out to an alarm panel activation at a store.

Jim sat up slowly, and looked at Leonard in the darkness. Leonard found himself taking Jim's face between his palms, and looking at him carefully.

Jim took one of Leonard's hands, kissed the palm, and folded the hand closed. He disappeared silently from the dark room.

Leonard sat on the bed, cross legged, and thanked his lucky stars that at the moment, he was utterly without a Big Plan. Because whatever the hell had just happened couldn't possibly fit in.

**TBC**

A/N: In the growth phase of fire development, the radiation of heat causes other contents of the room start to ignite as well. Imagine that the flames from the burning wastebasket have spread to the nightstand next to it, and the curtains, and the bed. Or, the burning stove has ignited the cabinets above it. The fire is still confined to one room, but is getting larger quickly. If fuel, heat, and oxygen are present in adequate supply, the fire will continue to grow, unless there is an intervention to remove one of those elements, or to interrupt the chemical chain reaction.

A/N #2: Due to this site's vague and finicky rules about sexual content, and just having heard that this site may PURGE YOUR ENTIRE ACCOUNT WITHOUT WARNING if you violate their rules, I have decided to move the remaining 14 chapters to AO3, which allows all content, has an actual tagging system, and has a much better-developed commenting system. Same story name. My pen name there is kel_1970. The site is archiveofourown dot org. Sorry for the inconvenience.


End file.
